The Last Fifteen Years
by luxgloriana
Summary: The Last Five Years inspired telling of the relationship between Matthew Morgan and Rachel Cameron. A series of one-shots that look at some of the most important moments in their life together, from funeral to first encounter—and from first encounter to death.
1. Rachel Part Thirteen

**AN: This fic is in part inspired by all of the great, cute, Rachel/Matthew one-shots that exist in the GG fandom, and it also inspired by the Jason Robert Brown musical (and the movie adaptation, which stars Anna Kendrick) _The Last Five Years_. In _TLFY_ , the two main characters tell the story of their doomed relationship, with the woman telling the story backwards, beginning with a divorce and ending with her meeting her husband, and the man tells the story starting with the meeting, moving forward the way linear time does, and they alternate scenes. I've stolen the format only—there will be no song and dance numbers in this fic, since, you know, it's written. **

**I'm not sure why, but I naturally started writing Rachel's scenes in first person, and it felt best to write Matthew's in third person, so that's what I did. Sorry if it seems jarring, but that seemed like a good way to differentiate between the scenes.**

 **This story is mostly complete, and I'm going to use posts as a way of motivating myself to finish the rest of it.**

 **Please note that I publish on both and AO3. If you want to read this story as one piece, you'll probably want to hop on over to AO3 so you don't have to continuously load new pages.**

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It was sunny. Devastatingly sunny. It was noon, there wasn't a cloud in the late spring sky, nor was there a single tree to be seen from here to the horizon.

I know that it's childish of me to be so angry about the weather, but I didn't want it to be sunny.

It was raining, a few days ago, in Arlington, when Joe called. He knew the perfect time to call—in the little window of time after Cammie went to school, and before I was supposed to leave for Langley. I had enough time to cry, break some things, and bring myself together again before driving to Cam's school and pulling her out of class.

The Agency had put me on bereavement leave. I had flown to Omaha with Cam at my side. I knew that an empty coffin had already been shipped to Nebraska, and had been delivered to the sole funeral home in the tiny town near the Morgan family ranch the day before we arrived.

And here we are. In the graveyard that stretched around one of the four churches in town, standing around a fresh grave next to those that held Matthew's grandparents. The minister, the same one who had baptized Matt, spoke of Matthew as a boy, and as a young man—of how bright he was, how he spent his afternoons in the public library, how he was the star of his football and baseball teams. How he made his family proud.

I was the only member of the Morgan family who knew just how proud they should be of Matthew.

Cammie will know, some day. She knows instinctually that her father is a hero, but someday, she will be able to see the evidence, read the reports, and know just how much her father deserved her admiration.

But no one else will know.

Matthew's parents knew he worked for the Agency, but they thought he had a desk job. His brother, so much older than him, knew he had an important job in the government, but didn't really know what. His sister-in-law didn't care, his niece and nephew simply knew him as the uncle who left for the east coast, his cousins just knew of him as the boy who got a scholarship to Georgetown. They all thought he'd been killed in a _mugging_ , that he had been so horribly injured that I demanded a closed casket service.

I'm not sure if I've ever felt so horrible about telling a lie as I when I told Matthew's parents that their son's body was in that casket.

I couldn't stop myself from thinking about what we would do if we ever found Matthew. Dead or alive. What do we say? Do we say anything? Do we continue to hide the truth? If, months or years from now, we found Mathew in a prison or enemy safehouse somewhere, beaten and bruised and starving but alive, will his parents feel the same overwhelming relief that I've been hoping that I will feel?

If there was one thing that the sun made me thankful for, it was that it gave me reason to wear a giant hat— _mom always wore a hat, everywhere she went_. I felt better, hiding under the wide black brim. I felt better hiding. There were a handful of friends and colleagues who flew all the way to Nebraska for the burial. Joe was at the back of the crowd—he was ready to leave for a mission almost immediately—and so were Thomas, and Lisa, and Dave, and Christine. I wasn't alone in this deception.

Abby's not here. I asked Joe where she was—he just said that she couldn't come.

 _God_.

I wanted Abby. I wanted Abby to be here so much. She understood. We had buried our mother together as children, and as adults at the beginning of our lives and careers, we had buried our father together. Why couldn't Abby be here for me? For Cammie?

I took a deep breath. Despite the concerned looks from my coworkers and the skeptical looks from my sister-in-law and the kind, murmured words from my mother-in-law and all of the town church ladies, who all told me that _it's okay to cry, dear_ , I refused. I was not going to cry.

We had reached the part of the service where we were supposed to place flowers on top of the (empty) casket. Placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, I stood from my chair in time with Cammie. I wanted her to be the first person to place a rose on her father's (empty) casket. She slowly walked forward, her chin set defiantly (just like Matthew's) as she took three careful steps from our plastic folding chairs to the grave. I stayed back as I watched her gently place the perfect white rose on top of the casket with all the care of an agent diffusing a bomb. As she turned back to me, I could see that her eyes (blue, just like Matthew's) were red and bloodshot, but she was not crying. Not right now, not anymore. Some of her dark blonde hair (just like Matthew's) had escaped from the French braid I'd done this morning, but she didn't even flinch as the wind blew it into her eyes.

She is stubborn and strong and stoic, and part of me (most of me) hated Matthew for making our daughter suffer. I had been preparing for this moment since the first time we kissed, but how could he do this to Cammie? Our daughter, who, since the age of five, has been hiding behind couches and sneaking into our bedroom at night just to check that we were safe? How could he make her worst nightmare come true?

I set my rose on top of Cammie's.

One by one, Matthew's family steps forward to place a rose on the empty casket.

Then it is lowered into the ground.

 _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._

Immediately after, there's a luncheon in the church's basement, which had signs that said it doubled as a tornado and nuclear fallout shelter. The food was provided by the church ladies, the town librarians, the wives of Matthew's old baseball teammates.

Neither Cammie nor I eat. We're not hungry. We mingle with the crowd of mourners, people who loudly tell wonderful stories about Matthew in high school and then, in a whisper, share their condolences.

I didn't know what to say to them in reply. Madame Dabney had never covered the art of graciously accepting condolences for the death of your husband in Culture and Assimilation. It's a bit of an oversight in Gallagher's curriculum, I think.

I honestly cannot remember a single conversation that I had during that meal. Professor Buckingham had never taught us how to remain vigilant while at the funeral services for your missing husband in CoveOps. Another oversight.

The only thing I remember is that I did not let go of Cammie. I always had one hand on her shoulder, on her back, one hand holding her own, or brushing her hair away from her face. I wasn't holding onto Cammie because she needed reassurance—I was holding onto Cammie because I did.

That night, in the guestroom we shared at the Morgan's ranch, (the one that was always supposed to go to Matthew's brother after his father's death, it was never going to be Matthew's, so it's certainly not home to me—but I'm struck by the memory of Matt's retirement plan—he wanted to retire to an old stone house on the plains, with nothing to hide behind for miles around, and I never cared for Nebraska as much as he did, but I wanted that for him so much), I talk to Cammie.

I'm going on a mission.

The Agency has given me bereavement leave, but I've gathering intel and talking to my assets for over six months, preparing for this one job. I needed to see this through. I need to be busy. I tell Cammie I'm so, so sorry, but I need to go.

She will stay with Matthew's parents.

I don't tell her that it's because I don't want her back in DC, where every monument and museum and ice cream shop will remind her of her father. I tell her that it's because it would help her grandparents feel better, if they can spend time with her. If they can see her, Cammie, who looks so much like her father, their second son, Matthew, ( _"But only in the obvious ways,"_ he always said, _"I see a hell of a lot of you in her"_ ) they will feel better.

Cammie knows I'm lying to her, but she accepts it all the same.

Sometimes I think she's a better daughter than I deserve.

I tell her that this mission will be my last job in the field a very long time.

I've accepted a new mission.

In August, I'll be going home to Gallagher. She'll be coming with me, and we'll be going on our very first mission together.


	2. Matt Part One

In the 19th century, Paris underwent a major, city wide revitalization, organized by a man called Baron Haussmann at the direction of Louis Napoleon III. The overcrowding, the narrow streets and hopeless tenements of the old city bred disease, despair, and discontent—and it was too easy to stage rebellions and build barricades in the street. Haussmann led a decades-long effort to change the very structure of the city. Block by block, the buildings in the city were torn down, and from the rubble, a new city emerged.

Haussmann believed that a city should be modeled after a living body. Wide plazas were scattered throughout the arrondisments to host markets, the city's stomachs. Two large plots of land at the west and east end of the city were designated to be parks, the city's lungs, to let its people breath. Most important were the streets. City streets needed to be wide, like arteries, so that the lifeblood of the city, its people, could move throughout.

Matthew Morgan loved Paris. The lights, the museums, the gardens, the architecture. Matt had spent too much of his life studying 19th and 20th century European history not to love every inch of this city.

But as a pavement artist, Paris was _paradise_.

Between the locals, the savvy tourists, and the less-than-savvy tourists, Matt could get lost anywhere. Long lines and tour groups he could hide himself in, with something to catch his eye in every direction, that he could just stop and stare at. He could blend in anywhere.

He was thrilled when, after finishing a mission in Kiev, he got a call asking him to drop by Paris for a few days. He was to rendezvous with an operative, codename Themis, who had just been in Berlin. Langley had realized that, based on the intel that Matt and Themis had provided them, their missions were closely linked. Matt was asked to meet Themis in Paris, and continue their investigation on a few assets who had apparently gone to ground.

Matt's handler had told him to be in front of Notre Dame at 1600 hours. It was his job to approach Themis, a young woman who would be identified by the bouquet of purple and white hydrangeas she held in her arms.

So there he was, sitting in the shade of a tree at the edge of the stone paved square, eating some strawberry sorbet, and fiddling with a camera. Notre Dame was to his left, and across the river was the famous bookstore, Shakespeare and Company. Matt had considered stopping by to get a souvenir for his mother, but then a kind elderly couple asked him for directions and he missed his train, and he wasn't sure he would have the time to buy a book before meeting Themis. So instead, he bought a single scoop of sorbet, and decided to wait in the warm sunlight of the Parisian spring afternoon.

Matt _loved_ his job.

He noticed the woman just as the bells began to strike four. Her back was turned to him, and she was staring up at the cathedral's two towers. The bouquet of flowers was cradled in her arms, setting off the flowing white blouse that she wore. Her hair was long, dark, and shiny, and as Matt slowly stood, he fought the desire to chuckle.

Here he was, in Paris, on a beautiful spring day, and he would be spending it with a beautiful woman.

 _If only the boys back in Nebraska could see me now._

Themis stood in place, so Matt approached her from the left, taking a wide turn through the crowd so that she could see his approach in her peripheral vision. As soon as Matt could really get a look at the woman's face, for some reason, he fixated on her nose—he'd never really had any strong opinions on noses before, but maybe he'd never seen a perfect nose before, because hers was perfect.

"Hydrangeas?" He asked, looking down at the bouquet. She, Themis, turned to him, her sharp eyes examining his utterly generic appearance. "Now there's something that reminds me of home."

She shrugged.

"I can never get them to grow at home. I guess the soil's too rocky."

"Pleasure to meet you, Themis." He said, smiling as the last knell echoed through the square.

"You too, Flatwater. Would you like to find a bench? Maybe across the river?"

"Sure."

They walked across the bridge, winding their way through the crowd, but sticking close together. There was a small, square park, next to Shakespeare and Company. There were a dozen people around, most of them older, though there were a few children sitting in the sunlight with a who was reading a picture book to them.

They sat on the oldest bench, crumbling and with peeling paint. But it had the greatest visibility of the street, so Themis and Flatwater sat, side by side.

"You have a scrambler?" She asked, looking at a man sitting three benches away who was wearing a large, puffy coat in the warm spring sun.

"Yes." He said, holding in the shutter button on his camera.

She watched him, and as they settled onto the bench to talk, she quietly said, "My name's Rachel, by the way."

"Matthew."

She nodded again, and quietly, began to tell her story.

"I was called to Berlin six days ago. My mission was to find an ex-KGB informant who had not answered any communications from the agency for the ten-previous days, despite the fact that he has been very cooperative in the past. I talked to seven of the informant's associates, and they provided seven different stories about what happened to him. One said that he went on a cruise in the southern Caribbean, another that he needed to visit his sick mother, and one even said that he had gone skiing in the Himalayas." She rolled her—sparkling green—eyes and smiled faintly at that last excuse. Matt couldn't help but smile in return. "But there's security footage of the man arriving at le Gare du Nord two days ago, and so I'm here."

"I was just in Kiev," Matt added. "On roughly the same mission. I was searching for two informants, both of whom had a history of being less-than-cooperative with the agency. One has been apparently underground for two weeks, and the other missed a meeting with a friend of mine last week. Neither of the men have been spotted by anyone, so I was sent here on the chance that our subjects have the same destination in mind."

As Matt finished his story, the woman nodded thoughtfully.

"Well." Themis, or Rachel, said, standing. "Shall we start with the usual suspects?"

"I've already made a reservation at Chez Laure at 9."

"Perfect. I think we'll have just enough time to check out the boathouse just east of here before we have to get ready for dinner."

Matt and Rachel strolled leisurely along the Seine, and spent a little over two hours surveilling a boathouse in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. In that time, they didn't see a single person of interest, or a single sign of activity.

They walked to the metro together, and agreed to meet at the metro station closest to Chez Laure half an hour before their dinner, and walk to the restaurant slowly enough they could detect any tails.

At 2030 hours, Matt spied Rachel standing just before the exit stairs in the metro station. She was wearing a beautiful green silk dress that made her eyes pop, and showed off her graceful collar bone. There was small bag slung over her shoulder, which she held tightly against herself as she stood among the crowd. She was standing out of the way, but she wasn't going unnoticed—Matt saw three different men doubletake as they passed her.

"You look lovely." Matt said. She jumped, and turned around.

"Thank you. You look nice as well, and can I just say—you're quite the pavement artist, Matthew."

"Thank you, on both accounts."

With another shared smile, they turned, and walked up the flight of stairs to the streets of Montmartre above. Once they were above ground, Matt offered Rachel his arm, and they walked down the street, in completely the opposite direction as the restaurant.

"So Rachel," Matt asked. "Do you happen to have a sister—I'm assuming younger—named Abby?"

"Yes." She said slowly, looking at every inch of Matt's face for any sign he was going to say something off-color. "How do you know Abby?"

"We were allies in a war against one of the break room coffee machines one night, about a month ago. There we were, exhausted and up to our necks in paperwork, and the coffee machine just wouldn't do anything."

"How did you fix it?"

"We slapped it a few times and it started working."

"Such technical finesse." Rachel said with a smirk. They cleared their corner, and continued walking east. "So do you frequently hang around headquarters late at night to do paperwork?"

"It's been known to happen now and again. Why?" He asked, a little bashful.

"Well, it's been known to happen to me now and again. I was just wondering why I've never seen you around."

He shrugged, and they flipped their direction without a single word passing between them.

"Maybe I'm just better at being a pavement artist than you are at remembering faces."

He was teasing her, she knew it.

"Please." She said, exaggerating her disgust with him. "I went to Gallagher. I don't forget a face."

"I think being _Phineas "Titan" Cameron's_ daughter might have something to do with it, too"

"Maybe." She conceded. She stared straight ahead.

"I should be honest with you—I might have written a research paper in college about your father and his associate's work in founding the Agency."

"Really?"

He nodded, and hummed.

"You see, I, unlike you, am the product of the Nebraska state public education system and a library card. I studied history and international relations at Georgetown. That paper caught the attention of a few Gallagher alumnae who work there, and, well. I guess I caught their attention by association."

She hummed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't make you uncomfortable by bringing up your father, did I?"

Rachel shook her head.

"No, no. I'm used to it. When I was at Gallagher—my first year especially—half of my classmates would never leave me alone about him, and the other half were terrified of me because they were convinced my dad could have their parents fired if they did something wrong. Even two of my roommates were too afraid to practice fighting with me in our Protection and Enforcement classes in case they hurt me and then be blacklisted from ever working for the federal government."

Matt laughed once, a warm and bright sound, as the two of them cleared another corner. They were nearly to the restaurant.

"For the record, Rachel Cameron, I'm terrified of you for your own sake."

"What, have I scared you off already? Or have you heard stories about me?"

"You haven't scared me off—yet. But for honesty's sake, Joseph Solomon is my roommate and best friend."

"And he told you about Kinshasa?" She asked, her clearly marking the question as rhetorical. Matt turned his head, slightly, to check to see that he hadn't offended her—rather, in the light of the diffuse street lamps, Matt could see that Rachel was faintly blushing.

"Yes." He admitted. "For the record, if I had been there, I would have applauded."

Rachel tossed her head back and giggled. She took a deep breath, and the two of them could see the restaurant just around the bend in the street, so together, they slowed. Brushing the hand that wasn't already wrapped in Matthew's arm against his shoulder, Rachel muttered "The fact that that mission report isn't more highly classified is the only evidence that anyone should ever need to know that I am _not_ benefitting from any kind of favoritism for being Phineas Cameron's daughter."

Again, Matt laughed.

"You don't need to be modest. Everyone who has heard the Kinshasa story—and that's a select group of people, I promise—has been nothing but impressed."

"What a flatterer."

But by this point, they were close enough to the restaurant that they could not have slowed down and given themselves more time to talk without attracting attention. So the entered the restaurant, and were seated at the table next to the window.

Dinner was more subdued than their conversation on the street, but under the scrutiny of the maître d' and the responsibility of watching the warehouse across the street, there was little they could find to joke about. Instead, they pretended to be a happy couple in the midst of a journey across Europe.

Before their first course arrived, they discussed their fictional plans for their trip to London. As they ate their appetizer, they discussed their favorite paintings in the Musée d'Orsay, and just as their entrées arrived, they were discussing the finer points of Versailles. As they finished their crème brûlée and the single glass of wine they were allowed on the job, they were trying to decide if the Henley could really be better than the Louvre.

Regardless of the excellent meal and the conversation, Matthew and Rachel left Chez Laure and stepped onto the quiet street with forced smiles on their face. Earlier, they had agreed that the warehouse across the street was their best shot at finding their missing ex-KGB agents.

"Not a single sign of life for the entire night." Matt whispered, knowing Rachel was as anxious as he was.

"It doesn't look… Well. It looks pretty _open._ Do you want to get a little closer?"

"I'm game." Matt answered. He took a deep breath, and took Rachel by the hand. With a dreamy look on his face, he looked up and down the street, and then up at the sky, looking like a tourist who couldn't believe he was in Paris with his paramour. Next to him, Rachel did the same.

"Clear."

They ambled across the narrow street, to the brick building, and an alley that led to the side door. The double doors were large and black and wooden and—

One was open.

With a look at Rachel, Matt crept toward the open door. He checked for any kind of security or sensors. Behind him, Rachel retrieved a small handgun from her purse. Seeing that the door was clear, Matt turned back to Rachel, to see if she was ready. At her nod, he nudged the door open with his foot, slowly. No alarms went off, and there did not appear to be anyone waiting immediately by the door, so Matt threw the door open wider, and Rachel took two large, purposeful steps into the building, her gun at the ready. Matt waited with bated breath, and when no gunshots rang out, he exhaled, but he tensed again when he heard Rachel groan.

"Flatwater. I found our missing assets."

Silently, he crept around the door. As he walked to Rachel's side, he took a quick breath, and realized immediately why she groaned.

"Ugh." He groaned, fighting the urge to cough. "I don't think I want dessert anymore."

In the light of the old, exposed bulbs, almost twenty feet in front of them, were five corpses. They were all men, all middle aged or older. Their wrists and ankles were bound. Two of them were on their backs, the other three were face-down, but Rachel and Matt could tell that all five of them had been shot in the head. Their bodies were bloated, and there was a swarm of flies that had collected around the bodies.

"Those two are your informants, right?" Rachel asked, holding one hand in front of her mouth as she gestured casually toward the two closest bodies with her gun.

It also smelled _horrible_.

"Yeah. The youngest one is yours, right?"

"Yeah."

As Rachel crept closer to the bodies, Matt looked up at the metal beams supporting the ceiling. There wasn't a single sign of a security in the building, and there definitely wasn't an assassin hiding above them, waiting to drop down and kill them both. They were in the clear.

"I'd say we're about a day too late to talk to them." He heard Rachel say, her voice still muffled by her hand.

"And the other two bodies?"

"I don't recognize them."

Matt kept closer to the bloated bodies, trying not to gag as the overwhelming stench of the dead bodies hit him.

"Neither do I." He forced out.

For a moment, he and Rachel just stood there, side by side, looking at the half-dried blood and gore, watching the flies flit from body to body.

"Well, let's look on the bright side." Matt said, forcing his voice to sound chipper. "This means less paperwork for us."

Beside him, Rachel's eyes sparkled as she giggled behind her hand, but then she took a sharp breath and had to stifle a gag.

"Don't make me laugh." She said, fighting to get control of herself.

"Sorry." Matt said, winking. She replied with a weak smile, and turned on her heel and walked out.

"C'mon. Let's get some fresh air before we call Langley. You have a camera, right? Because that means you're the one who can get up close and personal with them."

Matt followed her through the open doors, a smile stretching across his face as he went.

Dead bodies aside, he really did love Paris.


	3. Rachel Part Twelve

**Hey everyone! This one is short, so I'm posting it a little early. But don't worry! I'll have a longer one up in a few days.**

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I wasn't supposed to know, but the people at Langley were horrible gossips. Honestly, it was worse than Gallagher.

Apparently, Matt had missed a meeting with a cutout. A three-man team had just been sent to look for him, officially. Joe _had_ been looking for him for almost a week, unofficially.

According to Dave, he had missed a meeting with a cutout a week ago, and had not made contact over the phone, through a dead drop, or any backwater message system that he had set up with anyone.

He wasn't even on an authorized mission. According to Christine, the Deputy Director knew he was going to leave, but there's no documentation saying where he should be or where he had been. According to Abby, Matt was supposed to be in Rome, but there was also a chance he might be in Athens.

This is the longest Matt has ever been silent.

I wanted to get on the nearest plane to Rome and track him down. Joe and the Agency's best might be good, but I'm one of the Agency's best too. Who was better suited to finding Matt than me?

But that technically violates Agency policy. I wouldn't really care, if it weren't for Cammie.

I think Cammie knew something was wrong before I did. She's been so subdued since Matt left. She always worries when one of us is gone, but this has been different from the start. Every day, she's come home from school, done her homework, practiced some encryption, practiced her karate or gymnastics, and that's it. She hasn't asked to go to the park, to the mall, to a museum, to a friend's house. Her eyes are flat. She hasn't smiled, she hasn't laughed, she hasn't rolled her eyes, she hasn't said anything sarcastic.

For her sake, I hope that whatever she's feeling is the product of her imagination. As her mother, I just want her to be protected from every sort of heartbreak, forever. I can't imagine—

I can't imagine how upset she would be. How devastated.

It's painful, but I'll keep worrying about Cam, because that's the only thing that can distract me from worrying about what I'm going to do.

I'm not going to do anything else.


	4. Matt Part Two

**Three things: 1. This is my favorite chapter that I've posted so far, so please enjoy it.**

 **2\. It's nearing the end of the semester for me, and while I have a fair number of chapters written for this fic, I don't want to post more frequently than I can finish new ones. I won't have any time to write for the next week or so, so I'll probably only post once or twice within that time.**

 **3\. It is my birthday today, so you are all morally obligated to post a review, subscribe, favorite this, etc. (Just kidding. (No I'm not.))**

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With a quiet groan, Matt threw the cheap ballpoint pen down onto his desk and rubbed at his tired eyes.

He had finally— _finally_ —finished the paperwork from his mission in Quito, which had gone south, and gone south quickly. He had even more paperwork to complete than after his mission in Ho Chi Minh City, which, if you had asked the Matthew Morgan that had just returned from the mission in Ho Chi Minh City, he would have told you that would be impossible.

It didn't help that as he wrote about the absolute disaster of a mission, he was distracted by thoughts of his impending vacation.

It wasn't an exciting or exotic trip, but Matt needed to use up his mandatory vacation days, and it was his dad's birthday next week, so why not go home? His flight from Dulles to Omaha would take off tomorrow just after noon, and then he would be spending more than a week on the family ranch.

Matt stood from his desk and stretched. His coffee had gone cold, so he decided he would take a victory lap in the nearest employee breakroom and refresh his mug.

The breakroom was a sad and dreary little room a little way down the hall, lit entirely by glaring fluorescent lights. Most employees tried to avoid it, because even people trained on what to do when they're being tortured or held in an enemy prison didn't want to spend more time in that miserable room than they had too. But that's where the coffee was, so they couldn't avoid it entirely.

Matt was a little surprised to see Joe standing in the breakroom, casually leaning against the wall with a coffee cup in hand, his back turned to the door. Joe was talking to someone that Matt couldn't see passed Joe, but as he silently stepped into the room, his surprise grew when he saw that it was Rachel Cameron. She was wearing a flowy, floral print dress that she looked lovely in, but Matt had a hunch that Rachel Cameron was generally a lovely person and looked lovely in everything. As she talked to Joe, she was absent-mindedly pulling at the string of the tea bag that was steeping away in her mug.

"Oh, Matt." Joe said, turning sideways to watch as Matt topped off his own mug of coffee. "Have you met Rachel Cameron? Rachel, this is—"

"It's fine, Joe. We've met." Rachel said, interrupting gently. "It's nice to see you again, Matt."

"You too, Rachel." Matt stood a little straighter and smiled gently. "This savage isn't bothering you, is he?"

Joe rolled his eyes.

"He's perfectly civilized."

"Well, I live with him, so forgive me if I have a different opinion on the matter."

"And how do the two of you know each other?" Joe asked before either one of them could say anything more about himself.

"Classified." They answered together.

"Of course it is." Joe rolled his eyes again. "Don't you have a hundred pages about your mission to Quito to write?"

"I finished it two minutes ago."

"What happened in Quito?" Rachel asked, turning toward Matt. Her eyes gleamed.

"I'd rather not go into detail, but it involved a poorly made pipe bomb, a litter of kittens, and a dumpster full of rotten vegetables."

"Oh." Rachel's perfect nose crinkled as she imagined the horrifying possibilities. "Were the kittens alright?"

"They were fine. The dumpster, on the other hand…"

Before Joe could say something irritating, they were joined by a fourth person, a young woman in jeans and baseball jersey.

"Now this is a fun crowd. Shirking your desk job duties, are we?"

Abby Cameron had the look of someone who had just come back from a mission. Her eyes were bright, her posture perfect. She'd only been tailing a foreign operative around DC, but she looked alive.

"Just talking." Rachel replied, finally tossing her teabag into the trash. She and her sister—the two of them, Matt had known, looked very similar, but seeing them next to each other was startling—busied themselves by pouring cream and sugar into their drinks.

"Hey, Morgan. I heard that HR forced you into taking a vacation. Where are you going?" Abby asked, her back turned.

"Nebraska." He and Joe answered together.

"The hell are you going to Nebraska for?"

"It's home. My dad's birthday's next week, and since I was working on Christmas, I'm a little delinquent on my visits."

Abby laughed, and then turned around and said, with a shrug, "Hey, speaking of birthdays." Her eyes were still sparkling. "Do you know Alan Morrison? There are some people getting together to celebrate his birthday at a bar tonight. It's a casual thing, everyone's invited, and—" She paused, and looked over Matt and Joe's shoulders to check that the door was clear. She mouthed the words _he's going to propose to Jennifer._

She said the last part with a significant look at Rachel. Matt knew that Rachel and Jennifer were a part of the same graduating class at Gallagher, but he didn't know if they were actually friends or not.

"Oh, I'll go." Rachel said immediately.

"Yeah, sounds great." Matt answered before he could even stop himself. He had never had a conversation with Alan that hadn't been about work, and he barely knew Jennifer, but, _well_.

Interoffice fraternization was important. At least, that was Matt told himself.

Two minutes later, he watched the Cameron sisters depart from the break room, and had no choice but to confront the smirk on Joe's face.

"What?" He snapped, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Hours later, Matt was sitting at a table with Joe and the Cameron sisters in the middle of a bar. It was a Thursday night, and it was fairly quiet in the dark, wood paneled room. It was filled with about two dozen of the CIA's youngest employees, all of whom were talking and laughing in hushed tones.

When they'd arrived at the bar, Joe sprang ahead to claim a table, and Abby followed a step behind. They sat next to each other, leaving Rachel and Matt to sit next to each other.

It was not the most covert setup that either Joe or Abby had ever engaged in.

As soon as the four of them were halfway through their drinks, Abby and Joe disappeared. They both had co-workers that they simply _must_ talk to, about very important things, in the middle of a bar, without performing a bug sweep beforehand.

For ten whole seconds, Rachel and Matt were silent.

"They're not very covert, are they?" Rachel asked quietly. She wasn't looking at him—she was swirling the little straw in whiskey and coke.

"No. I thought they were supposed to be better than this."

"I've seen them be better than this."

Matt took a deep breath. Clearly, Rachel knew what was going on just as well as he did, and clearly, Joe and Abby had noticed that there was something between them. Matt realized that he had engaged in riskier operations so he decided to take the chance. He opened his mouth, and with the smile he'd been using to get out of trouble his entire life, said,

"We could… _disrupt_ their mission."

"How?" She asked abruptly. There was a faint smile on her lips, and her eyes were bright, but Matt could tell she wasn't entirely certain where he was going with his suggestion.

"Well, I would propose one of two options. Either I ask you out on a date, and you agree, and we tell them immediately so they stop looking like amateurs, or, I ask you on a date, you agree, and we keep it a secret from my best friend and your sister just to see how frustrated they get. After all, at this very moment Dave and Christine are blocking their view of our table, so they can't read my lips and see I'm confessing to you that I really enjoyed working with you in Paris, and that I'm interested in taking you to a nice dinner that doesn't end in the discovery of some bloated corpses."

Matt watched as a wolfish smile spread across Rachel's face. She turned away from him for a moment to take a sip of her drink—a rather more dainty and flirtatious sip then Matt would expect from a woman about to reject his offer of a date, so he wasn't discouraged as she turned back to him and said,

"Matthew Morgan. I want you to know, that I never pass up the opportunity to mess with my sister's head. So the first option is good, but the second option is better."

"That's the one I preferred too. I'm going to be in Nebraska until the Sunday after next. Is the Tuesday after that good for you?"

"Unless something very unexpected comes up, I'm free."

"Then I guess I have something to look forward to."

"Me too."

And then they struck up a totally innocuous conversation about baseball.


	5. Rachel Part Eleven

I never wanted to be this kind of wife—certainly not to Matt. I never wanted to be the wife that didn't want her husband to go off, and do dangerous things, to beg him to stay home and stay safe and stay with me. Mom had never done that with dad, and she wasn't even in the Agency—she was a Vassar educated housewife and DC socialite. She was smart, but there was always something she didn't understand.

It would be hypocritical—I would have been beyond livid had Matt ever made even the briefest of implications that he would want me to avoid doing something because it was dangerous. But even beyond that, I've never wanted to insult his abilities. Matt's good. He's so good. He's a natural, and he wasn't born into this life—I know he can be insecure about that.

I don't want him to think that I've ever underestimated him, in a single day of knowing him.

But I convinced myself that Matt should know how I feel. I deserve to be able to tell him.

I don't know how long I've been repressing this feeling. Weeks, I guess.

I've known that Matt and Joe have had some kind of personal mission cooking away on the backburner for years. They've probably been working on it for longer than I've known—I've told myself that they haven't told me not because they think I would be a liability or that they can't trust me with whatever intelligence they have, but because they're typing to keep operative involvement as limited as possible. I didn't want to confront either of them about it.

But then Matt came home from Ireland, of all places, hurt and angry and frustrated, the kind of burning, simmering internal anger that just isn't like him, and he hasn't been himself since. The first week after he came home, he snapped at me, he snapped at Cam, and argued with Abby over dinner, but oh, of course, he would talk to Joe. The second week after he came home, I was walking all the way across the building at Langley, returning to my desk from a meeting, when I saw the two of them walk into a spare interrogation room.

I decided not to confront Matt about it then, two weeks ago, when it was May. But now it's June, and that means Cam's in Nebraska with Matt's parents, because it takes the separation of a time zone and a thousand miles to make sure that girl isn't eavesdropping.

And I wasn't going to ask him. I wasn't going to ask him to stop involving himself with this, to stay out of danger.

But he needed to remember.

Usually, we drive to the Agency separately—our schedules are too different for carpooling to be convenient for either of us, and even in the worst of DC traffic, it wasn't a long drive between work and home, so we didn't feel that bad about our carbon footprint. But my car was up for its yearly inspection, so Matt and I had arrived early this morning, in time for my telephone meeting with some associates in Israel, and now, long after everyone else had gone home, I was waiting for Matt to be finished with a meeting with the Deputy Director.

I was, completely, and totally bored. The bullpen was empty, I'd finished with all of my paperwork, I couldn't to go to the gym because I didn't actually know when this meeting was supposed to be over, and for whatever reason, CIA computers didn't come with solitaire installed.

So I occupied myself by cleaning up my desk—which, really, was already immaculate. I had sorted my highlighters in rainbow order and separated my paperclips by size by the time the summer sky had gone dark and Matt and the Deputy Director finally approached my desk.

"Oh, hello, Rachel." The Deputy Director said. He was permanently affable man, and more generic looking than any pavement artist that I'd ever met. "Waiting for this one?"

"Yes, sir. We carpooled."

I stood up from my desk, and glanced briefly enough at Matt's face to see the faintest flash of guilt behind his eyes.

"Ah, well. By the way, how is young Cameron Morgan? Is it time for her to go to Gallagher yet?"

"Not yet. She starts sixth grade in the fall."

"Then I'm sure Patricia and Smith are relieved they'll have another year to rest. You're not technically supposed to know this—this is a violation of _etiquette_ , not _protocol,_ I assure you—but your daughter's application got passed around a few offices. Oh, everyone was impressed, of course—she's got a good pedigree—but they were a little intimidated. She's a bit of spitfire, isn't she?"

"She's certainly our daughter." Matt answered. I was grateful that he had spoken up, because I really wasn't certain that I could tell the Deputy Director how I felt about how he used the word _pedigree_ in reference to my daughter and that I really didn't appreciate his tone of voice without getting fired. Or at least suspended.

"Nothing wrong with that. Anyway, I'll leave the two of you to go enjoy the last of this lovely summer's night." And then he turned on his heel and left.

I've never liked that man.

Matt waited, patiently, as I took a few deep breaths.

"Okay," I said, not meeting his eye. "Let's go."

The long walk to where we parked at the far edge of the lot, the fifteen-minute drive home, and even the walk from the driveway to our front door seemed impossibly long. We both knew that we each had something to tell each other and for some reason, dreaded it.

Without a word, Matt flipped on the kitchen light, and we sat together at the kitchen island, and I realized that, while I was sitting, waiting at my desk, I could have figured out how I was going to start this conversation.

Matt was watching me. I felt, briefly, and foolishly, self-conscious about the emotions my face was telegraphing.

"I've known…" I said, slowly. Is this how normal people when confronting their spouses about infidelity? "That you and Joe have been working on _something_ since we were dating. I know it's been getting to you." I took a deep breath. "I'm not going to ask you to give it up. And I'm going to trust that you have at least two good reasons why you haven't told me about it.

"But please—please, Matthew. Tell me that it's worth it."

With wide eyes, Matt nodded, sharply, twice.

"I need to know—do you have a shot at it? Whatever it is? And—and if something goes wrong—you have a plan, right? Your work and energy isn't going to go to waste?"

He nods, again, twice.

These are the kinds of things that, whether for better or for worse, people like us don't talk about often.

Trying and failing to calm my wildly beating heart, I tried to take another deep breath—but I felt myself shudder as I exhaled.

"Thank you." I muttered. "Was there… Was there something you needed to tell me?"

"The Deputy Director wants me—and a team of rookies—to tail Catherine Goode. _Someone_ , or someone's asset, has seen her hanging around Buenos Aires, and says she's going to be there for at least a month. They want us to tail her, figure out what she's doing, and if possible, find out enough to get a grab team after her."

"But she knows you." I said. _Catherine Goode_ has never forgotten a face in her life.

He nods again.

"Officially, the Deputy Director wants me there only as the director for the rookies, control them, set up their routes and schedules. But he doesn't see why I, unofficially, I can't offer myself up as bait."

"Well, that's because he's never been in a P&E class with her. Or been forced to be her test subject during the torture unit of CoveOps."

"Can't say I'm thrilled about that plan. It's technically up to my discretion, but…"

Matt shrugged.

"Right."

I tried to accept it. Catherine Goode isn't any better than Matt. But my tongue didn't hold.

"For the record," I said. "Everyone at Gallagher knew she was going to go rogue by sophomore year."

Matt snorted, once.

"It took me two minutes to figure out she was an emotionless, manipulative, evil—" He paused to find the right word. For some reason, he settled with, "monster."

We sat, in silence, at the kitchen island for two minutes, until I noticed the clock on the oven. 10:32, on a Friday evening. The ice cream shop three blocks away would be open for another half an hour.

"You want to go get some ice cream?"

The cloud of anxiety that had been hovering over Matt lifted, and I saw the return of the little glimmer that had been missing from his eyes all day.

He leaned forward, and we kissed.

"You are, without a doubt, the best wife in the world. And I'm not saying that just because of the ice cream."

I smiled.

"I know. I love you too."


	6. Matt Part Three

**Hello everyone! This is another chapter that's slightly on the shorter side, but good news! It's another funny chapter, and sees the return of everyone'a favorite gruff, solemn, double agent, Joe Solomon.**

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It was a Tuesday night, but it still wasn't easy to get reservations for two at DC's most exclusive French restaurant, _Toulouse_. Toulouse was just south of Embassy Row, in Georgetown, and was popular among anyone who had anyone to impress, sugh as celebrities or visiting foreign dignitaries (except, of course, for the French dignitaries who turned up their noses and scoffed at the suggestion of eating _American_ French food).

Part of the restaurant's appeal was how small and homey it was. It was based on the first floor of an old brick colonial townhouse. On the inside, it was warm and intimate, with mismatched antique tables, low lights, and heavy red drapery over the windows. It gave the building a kind of aged respectability that was genuinely ironic when one considered the number of shady, treasonous deals between politicians and all of the dates between men and their mistresses that occurred there.

When Matt and Rachel arrived, they were seated by the maître de at a small table in the corner of the room with a single glowing candle in the center. Matt helped Rachel into her chair, returning her glare with a charming smile as he deliberately took the seat with the better view of the dining area.

"You're not starting this date off on the right foot, Flatwater." Rachel sneered, casking her eyes down to the prix fixe menu.

"I'm paying, Themis. I get the better view."

"You're not paying."

"How do you feel about oysters for the first course?" Matt asked, his voice slightly louder. He was absolutely not paying attention to Rachel as she rolled her eyes. "Do you like oysters?"

"No, I hate them."

"Good. Me too, but I was going to make you happy and order the oysters if that's what you wanted. Gravlax it is, then."

"How do you know that I didn't want the salad for the first course? Are you going to pick my entrée for me, too, Matthew, dear?"

"Rachel, darling." Matt reached his arm across the table, and brushed one hand across Rachel's cheek, hyper aware of the fact that the sleeve of his best suit was very close to the flickering flame of the candle, and if Rachel wanted retribution, she could just knock his arm to the side and into the flame. But Rachel just stared, dead eye, at him in reply. "Give me some credit as an operative, and as your boyfriend. You hate salad. It's been six months, and I've never seen you order a salad. When you see someone else order a salad, you always wrinkle your nose."

Rachel maintained her dead-eye stare as Matt withdrew his hand and picked up the wine list. Rachel, meanwhile, took a deep breath, and sighed.

"Okay, I hate salad."

Matt have a satisfied hum, keeping his eyes on the wine menu.

"Don't be so smug about it. You're not that good at your job."

"Love you too, darling."

Rachel set her menu on the table, and, raising her eyebrows, opened her mouth to say, "Don't—" but then she was cut off by the sound of crackling static in her ear.

"As cute as this is to listen to, the subject's approaching the restaurant. If the two of you could just _pretend_ that you're on a date and do your job, everyone would appreciate it. Including your employers."

Rachel and Matt's eyes met across the table, and even though neither allowed even the tiniest emotional response to show on their face, they knew exactly what the other was thinking. After a second, Matt winked, and in the most casual gesture, brushed his hand across the microphone hidden in his lapel pin. There was a sudden burst of static in their ears, but to Rachel and Matt, it was more than worth it to hear the man on the other side of the comms units cry out in pain at the jarring noise.

"Rot in hell, Flatwater." He said, after a moment.

"I'll add it to my _to do_ list, Wise Guy." He smirked.

Rachel and Matt were on their best possible behavior as they sampled the wine and the gravlax. But then it came time for their subject, a middle aged man from Italy who had no legitimate authority to act as a diplomat but did so anyway, to excuse himself to use the restroom, and Matt needed to follow. Rachel, meanwhile, needed to distract the subject's dinner partner, the junior senator from Florida.

Suffice to say, sometimes Matt and Rachel's jobs required them to _not_ act on their best behavior.


	7. Rachel Part Ten

**I'm posting this early because things are about to get very crazy for me over the next few days, and I'd appreciate a review/a subscribe/whatever form of encouragement you'd like to give me! Also, please consider checking out my other fics! This is my only real multichapter fic, but I have a GG oneshot, and two Heist Society fics up that might interest you.**

 **This chapter features what I'm pretty sure is the first nice, domestic scene with Matt, Rachel, and Cammie, so please enjoy!**

* * *

Matt had called an hour ago, saying that he was leaving Langley soon. His mission had gone well. There were no problems with the debriefing, but he might have strained his bad knee on the mission, so he needed to stop by and see a doctor and make sure that everything was okay before coming home.

Because what I really wanted right now was another reminder that Matt and I had a dangerous job.

I was lost in my thoughts, running through the history of my own missions gone wrong, when I heard the electronic deadbolt on our door unlock.

"What's wrong?" Matt asked immediately, throwing his duffel and coat down onto the armchair that never held people, only coats and bags. As he walked toward me, where I sat at the kitchen island, he cast his eyes towards the open bottle of wine.

Sliding off of the stool, I hugged him, hard, and kissed him. He still smelled like airplane.

"Welcome home, sweetie." I said, moving away from him to retrieve a second wine glass from the cupboard.

With a sigh, he collapsed onto the other stool and took the glass from me, and filled up both.

"What's wrong?" He asked again, resting his head in his hands as he leaned on the island. Taking a deep breath, I retrieved the leftover pizza that had been keeping warm in the oven, and slid it onto the island in front of him. And then I pointed at the large pile of papers in the very center of the island.

"Those are Cam's registration papers for Gallagher. If she's going to be guaranteed a place before the admissions department starts offering places to non-legacies, these need to be in to Operative Development by the end of the month."

Matt nodded absentmindedly as pulled the massive pile of paper towards him as he bit into a slice of pizza. I sat down next to him, watching his face as he took in the variety of questions we needed to answer.

" _On a scale of one to five_ ," he read through a mouthful of food, " _your child displays a tendency to explore their physical environment for new and strange things._ Well, that one's a five. _On a scale of one to five, you child displays a high proficiency for using computers and to any other pieces of advanced technology to which they might have been exposed_. Also a five. _On a scale from one to five, your child displays a talent for strategic thought._ Yeah, I'd say that one's a five too."

Swallowing a sip of my wine, I sighed.

"I know. She's just turned eleven and she's already a perfect candidate for Gallagher. She could be top of her class."

"What even are the class sizes at Gallagher?" Matt asked, as he looked through the forms about the DNA test Cam would have to take.

"They're down to about 15 per grade now. Back in my day, we were up to around 25, but between the Berlin Wall falling and _perestroika_ , they're a little more selective."

"Our daughter's special." Matt said, sipping his wine. It was like he was re-remembering an old memory.

"I know." I avoided his eye, even as he spun on the stool and took one of my hands in his.

"You and Abby went to Gallagher, and you turned out great. And that school means so much to you—I'm pretty sure you love it more than you love me—" I snorted. "And our daughter's good. She's a natural."

"I know." I turned back to him. "But even the best operatives get hurt, or get in trouble. How many people have been there to praise you, me, Abby, Joe after a job well done? But you know how many tight spots we've been in, and the number of times we've gotten hurt in the field. You know Cam's good with computers and great with science, but she won't take a desk job. She'll be a pavement artist, like her dad."

At that, Matt looked away from me, and swallowed more than half of his glass of wine in one go. Considering that that bottle of cabernet that had actually cost more than $20, that was a little annoying.

"Maybe it's because I picked this life, rather than being born into it, but I think she can do it."

"I know she can do it. She'll do it very well. The CIA will want her for sure, but I wouldn't be surprised if the NSA, Interpol, the FBI all started asking after her when she's still an underclassman. She tailed you, Matt. She's brilliant. I don't want to condemn her to this life, but what would she be like in a normal school? She's smart enough to get a scholarship at any one of the prep schools in DC, but even at the most academically rigorous and privileged schools, she'd be—"

"Miserable. And antsy. At public school, she'd either be too stifled to ever be happy or waste her potential because she feels trapped. At least, that's how I felt. At a prep school, she'd either be stigmatized as one of the scholarship kids, or, I don't know, start hanging out with spoiled politician's kids and party every weekend and get addicted to opiates by the age of 18." Matthew said, rolling his eyes.

"I mean… Those weren't exactly the scenarios that I imagined, but yes. I'm having trouble admitting that my daughter and only child could never be happy unless she joins the dangerous family business and spends her adult life getting shot at in foreign countries."

"Well, if she's going to be a pavement artist like you said, she's pretty good at it, so she really shouldn't be getting shot at—"

" _Matt_." I snapped. "I'd appreciate it if you—"

"Were less flippant about it." He finished. "I'm sorry, Rachel. I am. Believe me. I spent half of the flight home from Caspia thinking about the fact that someday Cammie might walk into the center of a military coup and walk out with classified files saved to a disk hidden in her hat, or do anything of the insane things that we do, like parachute onto an embassy. I just don't see much use in denying that it's going to happen."

"I know. I know I'm not being rational about this, but—"

"But you are being perfectly reasonable. I'm not saying that you shouldn't be concerned, but we need to do the best thing for Cam, and I think the best thing for her is to send her to Gallagher, to put our brilliant and amazing daughter on the track to be the incredible operative we know she can be. When she's at Gallagher, or when she graduates, or goes to college, she can decide then if she wants this life. Because the best thing we can do for our stubborn, independent, genius child is to not sell her short on her own potential."

I nodded, spinning the wineglass by the stem in my hands.

These were all things that I had thought before, but having someone, especially Matt, say them out loud helped.

"But you already knew that." Matt sighed, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards, just the tiniest bit. He reached forward to grab the bottle of wine between us, and refilled both of our glasses up to the very brim.

I leaned forward and kissed him.

I had missed him. Our house was always quiet—spies are quiet people by nature—but when Matt's gone, the house always seems to echo in his absence.

Breaking the kiss, Matt leaned back. He was smiling, that sweet, charming grin of his.

"Now, if you'll excuse me." He stood from the stool, and, crossing his arms, leaned against the island. His eyes fixated on the base of the staircase, and raising his voice, he said "I'm going to go and say goodnight to my lovely daughter, who I'm certain is in bed right now, and isn't trying to eavesdrop from the top of the staircase."

Matt's eyes caught mine as we froze, grinning mischievously as we heard a single floorboard creak. Giggling slightly, Matt leaned down to kiss me once on the top of my head.

"I'm going to say goodnight to Cam, and then I'll come back down and help you with the paperwork."

"No." I shook my head. "The paperwork can wait for the weekend. The wine, on the other hand, won't."

He smiled again.

"Sounds like a plan, love."

And, as quietly as ever, he crept up the stairs.


	8. Matt Part Four

Everyone in the business likes to come up with their own list of rules, a ranking of the things that they learned in school or in the field based on how they fit according to their own philosophies as agents. Nearly everyone ignores what their colleagues have listed as their own rules—after all, an operative's rules are personal. Agent's A's rules are useless to Agent B.

However, nearly everyone that Matt knew within the Agency agreed on one thing: _most jobs will go wrong._

Of course, there were the kinds of jobs that go wrong in ways that, ultimately, mean that the mission goes better than the original plan. Then there are missions where you have to deal with a minor disaster, the kind that will one day be hilarious, like the pipe-bomb-and-dumpster disaster from Quito.

And then there are jobs that go very wrong—they usually end in the hospital—and of course, there are jobs that go wrong in the worst way possible. Those ones end with another star being added to the Agency's memorial wall.

Matt's mission to Acapulco had been both of those last two. The surprise implosion of an abandoned resort high-rise had resulted in the death of Matt's partner, and had put Matt in the hospital with a shattered left kneecap.

Matt's partner—Simmons, a Blackthrone alum who had graduated two years behind Joe—was not someone that Matt knew well. Simmons was the quintessential Blackthrone boy. He was arrogant, cold, and generally anti-social, and he also happened to be a rising star in the Circle of Cavan.

That he had died in the implosion that Matt had merely been injured in was not entirely an accident—oh, Matt certainly hadn't gone out of his way to make sure that Simmons was crushed by a falling pillar of concrete and rebar, but, as he would report _with the greatest regret_ during his debriefing, he knew he could have done more. When Matt had trouble falling asleep, later that night, it wasn't because of regret.

The debriefing itself had been short—just an initial report on the circumstances of Simmons' death and the success of the mission, otherwise. Matt's handler and bosses had wanted a more detailed report—and they would get one, eventually—but Matt needed to be seen by the doctors at Langley first.

His kneecap had shattered like an old porcelain vase. It would need surgery, and he would be on desk duty for months, but he could take heart in the fact that he would make a full recovery. Eventually.

If Matt had his druthers, he would have had the surgery immediately and gotten it over with. But the doctors at Langley were perpetually understaffed and perpetually overstressed, so he would have to wait a full day before the orthopedic surgeon could fit him into the schedule.

When Matt had initially been admitted, a nurse had tried to call his first emergency contact (well, the first contact who had at least level 5 clearance, which meant that they hadn't called his parents). But his first contact, Joe, was in Istanbul with Abby, and Matt hadn't updated his medical information in a while, so his second contact was still listed as Dave, and he was in Saint Petersburg anyway

Which meant that, early on that Tuesday morning, after he had been settled into a hospital room, Matt had to call Rachel himself.

An hour later, Rachel rushed into the room, not bothering to hide just how worried she was. She kissed Matt twice, before sitting in the vinyl chair next to the hospital bed. They talked for nearly an hour before she had to leave, but Rachel could only postpone her phone call with a few members of MI6 for so long. She really didn't want to leave Matt alone—and she kept apologizing profusely for not thinking to bring a book or two for him to read while confined to bed. Matt brushed her off, insisting that he needed to sleep anyway, and that his own injury was no excuse to keep MI6 waiting, and would Rachel mind passing along his congratulations to the newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Baxter while she was talking to them?

Rachel returned during her lunch, bearing the news that she had taken the following afternoon off to be with Matt before and after his surgery.

"You didn't have to do that." He murmured.

"Yes, I did. After all, your usual caretaker is in Istanbul with my little sister. Also, I don't want you to be alone."

Matt nodded, his throat and heart full.

The following day, Rachel sat in the same vinyl chair and watched as the staff wheeled Matt out of the room. She was still there when they returned with him, unconscious and with a successfully repaired knee.

After an hour, Matt finally awoke, groggy and confused—two of his least favorite things to be. But then he groaned, opened his eyes, looked around the room through bleary eyes and saw Rachel, and felt just a little better.

"It's good to see you awake." Rachel said, quietly and gently.

Slowly, Matt asked "Am I… Good?"

"Everything went according to plan. Better, actually. The surgeon said that some of the breaks were cleaner than they had looked on your x-rays." She reassured. "Do you want me to call for the nurse?"

Matt tried to shake his head, but really only twitched from side to side.

"No… Just—water?"

He noticed the pitcher of water on the table to his right—his hospital bed was positioned so he was sitting up, and the water was just slightly out of reach. But he was too slow. Before he could even work up the strength to extend his arm, Rachel had already poured him a small cup of water. Dropping in a straw, she sat, gently, at the edge of his bed.

Finding just enough strength to keep his hands from shaking, he took the cup from her hands, and sipped from the straw.

"Slowly." She admonished, just as Matt went to take a second sip. He took a second, smaller sip, and then Rachel took the cup from his hands and set it down on the table. Matt still looked pallid— _the hospital lighting did his complexion no favors_ —but his eyes were clearer than they were a minute before.

Rachel brushed a small lock of Matt's dirty blond hair away from his forehead, as he gazed up at her.

"Do you want me to call your parents? Or do you want to wait a little bit?"

Matt hesitated.

 _Something was wrong_.

The moment he realized what it was, he blurted "You're not family."

Rachel remained impassive as she replied with a simple, "No."

"Why did the doctor give you details about my surgery? I never signed anything saying you could know about it."

She didn't say anything, but Rachel looked completely confused, and completely innocent. Matt knew her well enough to know that she didn't have any tells, that she was too good to have any tells. He was still a little drugged, but even somehow, he _knew_ she was lying.

"Did you lie to the doctor?"

"What?"

" _Rachel_."

" _Matthew_."

" _Rachel_."

"I may have told the doctor we were married."

" _Rachel_."

"It's hardly the worst lie I've told in my life, Matthew."

"You lied to a doctor. A CIA doctor—"

"I was worried about you, I knew you would want to know how your surgery went—"

"You lied to our co-worker."

"How often does anyone that we work with talk to the CIA's orthopedic surgeon? He's a nice man, but we're all busy with our own jobs, no one— "

"I think you committed a crime, Rachel. I think lying to get access to my medical information is a crime—"

Matt's grin grew wider and wider with each accusation they traded. Meanwhile, anyone who didn't know her would think that Rachel was growing increasingly irritated, but Matt knew better—she was embarrassed.

"Matthew—"

"I think that _you_ , an employee of the _federal government_ , just committed a crime within your place of work—"

"Well, you know, you could always make an honest woman out of me?"

After a beat, Matt's wide, childlike grin fell; yet his eyes glittered in the harsh hospital light.

"Rachel Vivian Cameron." His voice was once again rough and grumbling. "Are you proposing to me?"

Rachel smiled and blushed.

"No. I'm telling you that, once you get home, you're going to propose to me with the ring that you have hidden at the bottom of the box of rice in your kitchen—"

"How did you—"

"Hey, I'm pretty good at my job, Morgan. Anyway, you're going to propose to me once, and I'm going to say yes, because I love you, Matthew Morgan. And then I'm going to give you the ring back, and you're going to make reservations at every fancy restaurant in DC, and you're going to propose to me again at every one of them, and—"

"And we're going to get free champagne and dessert at every one of them?"

"Yes."

"Rachel Cameron, I love you, you wonderful, beautiful, brilliant woman."

"I love you too."


	9. Rachel Part Nine

**To the reviewer who asked for a Matt and Cam scene, you're in luck! This is the first of a few really cute Matt and Cammie scenes that I've written, so I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

As a mother, I did not enforce the kind of domestic perfection—and by that, I mean discipline—that my own parents had. My mother had a husband who ran in the most elite Old Boy's Club in DC; two hellion daughters; and three charities, the DAR, and a sorority alumnae organization to take up her time. But somehow, she kept our house in Chevy Chase spotlessly clean, in the spring and summer there were fresh flowers from our garden in every room, and if Abby and I were going to run wild, we were going to do it outside, far away from the heirloom china and crystal.

I was reminded my own domestic inadequacy when I came home from a meeting on a Saturday afternoon and found Matt and Cammie sitting on the living room floor. They were surrounded by dolls, shredded newspaper, and a teetering pile of board games, with a strange collection of chess pieces, checkers, and candy arranged on the floor between them. I didn't bat an eye as they looked up just long enough to smile at me to welcome me home.

"How many men—I mean, gender non-specific agents—should we send in the car?" Matt asked, holding up Cammie's doll's plastic convertible car.

Cammie—still in her pajamas, like her dad—bit her lip.

She would, I realized be starting the second grade in a month, and suddenly, I remembered how much I had hated the second grade.

"I don't think more than three could fit in the trunk, could they? And I don't think it would be very comfy. But I think it would be best if we could get four people in the car—that way, one person could stay near the car while the three other people spread out, like—" She made a flourishy, pushing motion with her hands—like water fanning out from a fountain. "The hangar's not that big, is it? You won't need five people, right?"

"I think four people is perfect. Remember, there are still two other agents nearby—" Mat picked up a doll that was sitting next to the collection of chess pieces that were supposed to show the walls of a hangar, I guessed, and pointed at a stuffed rabbit that sat at Cammie's feet, along the exterior candy-border of the facility. "So if they need help inside of the hangar, their backup can get there quickly."

Was Matt really asking our seven-year-old daughter to help him plan an attack on an arms dealer's compound in the Scottish Highlands?

"But where is the fourth person going to hide? You said it was a fancy car—"

"Ah! We'll leave that up to the research and development team. I've seen, before, in other cars, where they've carved out a hole in the seat cushion that's big enough for someone my size to curl up into a ball like a hedgehog, and then they stretch another cover over top, so you can't see it at all—"

I cleared my throat, and their heads swung towards me, looking sheepish. They'd forgotten I was there.

"I hate to end this devious planning session—" Matt looked a little more sheepish than Cam did, I decided. "But Cammie, sweetie, we have to leave for gymnastics in fifteen minutes."

Cam looked heartbroken.

"Okay…" She said, slowly standing up. She looked around at the mess that had taken over the living room, as if only just noticing that it existed. "Do I—" She waved her hand at the chaos.

"It's alright, Cam. We can take care of that later. Or maybe daddy can take care of that while you're at class?" I asked, as she nodded and scampered up the stairs.

Matt remained on the living room floor. He looked a little surprised by the degree of the mess that he had created.

"So, the bonus you're going to get from completing this sting—"

"Will go towards Cam's college fund, yes." He nodded.

"And when one of the higher-ups asks about how you developed this plan—"

"I will tell them that my brilliant seven-year-old daughter inspired me to pull a Trojan Horse, and that her curiosity helped me to refine the plan."

"And if something goes wrong—"

"It will be all my fault. However—" He finally stood up, and kissed me once on the cheek. "It's a pretty good plan, Rach. It's got a lot of potential."

I shook my head and sighed, fighting back my smile. Dad had let me sit in on a few meetings with his fellow agents when I was little, and it meant everything to me. After this—and that NSA code incident a few years ago—I realized that Matt and I really had created a dangerous kid.

Perfect and beautiful, but dangerous.

"So," I continued. " _You will_ have this cleaned up by the time we get back from gymnastics, right?"

"Of course." He said, smiling warmly. "I'll even have dinner made."

"You see, Matt, that's what _I_ call a good plan."

He chuckled, twice, loudly, and bent down to start separating the checkers from the chess pieces.


	10. Matt Part Five

Matt knew that he had no reason to be nervous. Not really. Getting married was no riskier than working for the CIA, or taking on an unofficial mission to dismantle a secretive terrorist organization that's been operating in only the darkest of shadows since the end of the American Civil War.

But here he was, standing in a small annex room of a fancy mansion in DC that Mr. Cameron had pulled some strings to rent for his daughter's wedding, wearing the nicest tux he'd ever worn, rocking forward onto his toes and back onto his heels as he considered everything that could go wrong.

 _They could be attacked by the Circle of Cavan._

 _They could be attacked by any one of the 800 separate terrorist groups that Matt had clearance to know about._

 _Phineas Cameron could realize that his prodigious daughter was too good of a spy to marry someone like Matthew, and then prevent the wedding from ever occurring with the full might of the CIA behind him._

 _Phineas Cameron could walk into the room, reveal that he knew that Matthew and Rachel hadn't waited until marriage to have sex, and then kill him immediately as punishment._

 _Rachel could come down with meningitis at any moment._

 _Matt could come down with meningitis at any moment._

 _Rachel could just decide that—_

"Stop it." Joe said, rolling his eyes. He was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Isn't this the point where you hand me the flask you have in your pocket?"

"I would, but it's full of gin."

Matt groaned.

"Bastard. You know I haven't been able to drink gin since that job in Manchester. You did that on purpose."

"I did—this is for me and Abby to share. Come on, Morgan. You don't need alcohol. Everything is going to go off without a hitch, or there will be heads rolling across the swanky parquet dance floor."

Matt, seemingly having already moved beyond Joe's sarcastic comment, stared at a slightly dirty spot on the plaster wall for a moment.

"Phineas Cameron is going to be my father in law." He said.

"And Abigail Cameron is going to be your sister in law, and Rachel Cameron is going to be your wife. That's how marriage works." Joe said, taking a few slow steps closer to Matt, and slapping his hand onto Matt's shoulder. "Although, speaking of which, there are a lot of people in the office betting pool who are upset that Rachel's changing her last name instead of hyphenating. Cameron-Morgan sounds very nice."

Matt cast him a dirty look— _because Joe should really know that Matt had nothing to do with Rachel's decision_ —and then checked the clock on the wall.

"Do you have the rings?" He asked, staring absently at the clock's pendulum. There was an old clock with a pendulum at home, in the kitchen in Nebraska—he used to like to watch it swing back and forth, when he was young and angry or anxious and needed something to calm him down. It wasn't helping now.

"Left inside pocket, which you already know—you looked at the wrinkle in my tux the minute I walked in the room."

"Yeah, I was just holding you accountable. Do you have your best man speech for the reception?"

"No, I was just going to improvise. I was going to see what Abby says and then copy her tone."

"She's going to mock Rachel and I mercilessly."

"That's what she said when I asked her about her speech. But I'm not sure if she's going to follow through."

"Abby always does."

"I might have bet Dave $20 that Abby's going to end up saying something very sentimental and start sobbing in front of all of your guests, so I'm not as certain."

For a moment, Joe's eyes unfocused, and then he flinched.

"Sorry, Phoebe." He looked back to Matt. "Abby has just informed me that her speech is going to be the funniest Maid of Honor speech anyone has ever given, and that she is certainly not going to cry."

"Are you really on comms right now? Why am I not on comms? This is my wedding—that means this is my operation."

"It's just Abby, the wedding planner, and I on comms, Matt. I think it would still count as being bad luck if you were to talk to your blushing bride on comms before the wedding."

Matt snorted.

"You really think Rachel counts as a blushing bride?"

"She's on her third glass of champagne, so she is a little flushed."

"What, she's allowed to drink and I'm not?"

"Rachel needs to come to term with the fact that she's marrying down. You, on the other hand, are marrying up."

It took a moment for him to react, but Matt sighed and nodded with a silly, dreamy smile on his face.

"I know. I'm still going to beat the shit out of you for saying that the next time we're at the gym together."

"You're going to need all of the motivation you can get if you think you're going to beat the shit out of me. Now, come on. Your dad and your brother had some sage advice they wanted to give you."

After checking his appearance in the mirror one last time, Matt strides out of the dressing room, clapping his Best Man on the shoulder as he went. He could breathe easier now.

"Thanks, Joe."

"Anytime, Flatwater."


	11. Rachel Part Eight

**Sorry this is a little late! I've had a crazy few days moving back home from college, but hopefully this one is cute enough to make up for it.**

* * *

Even though we were traveling at over 850 miles per hour, it was not nearly fast enough.

"I hate myself right now." Matt whispered beside me.

"I hate myself, too."

We were sitting in first class on a flight home, but the additional leg room and extra plush seats provided no comfort to us.

"I think we should let her eat ice cream for dinner."

"She's wanted a hamster for months—I think we should buy one for her on the way home."

"We'll get one of those really elaborate cages for it—like the ones that look like a castle. Or a rocket ship."

"Abby isn't going to let us live it down."

"If you think that's bad, just imagine Cammie. She's just going to smile, look down at her shoes, and say, _it's okay, I understand_ , and we're going to feel very guilty."

"I already feel very guilty."

Matt sighed.

"Yeah."

Matt and I had spent five days in Saint Petersburg trying to gather intelligence on some shady arms deals that had gone down there. From Saint Petersburgh, we had flown to Anchorage to deliver our intel to a field office, and from Anchorage we were supposed to fly on a commercial flight back to DC.

However, there is no such thing as a direct commercial flight between Anchorage and DC, which meant Matt and I had a layover in Seattle, which, had it been on time, would have delivered us at home with just enough time to drive from the airport to Cams' elementary school to watch her kindergarten graduation.

But then a simple electrical issue with the plane had delayed our flight by 45 minutes having already boarded the plane. As we sat in our seats, Matt and I, minute by minute, kept pushing our mental itineraries forward. As the pilot announced over the intercom that the problem had been solved and that we would be taking off soon, Matt and I looked at each other, filled with dread.

"Maybe there will be a freak tail wind."

"At this time of year, that's not likely."

"That's why I said _freak._ A miracle tail wind."

"Maybe angels will descend from heaven and come and give the plane a good push."

We laughed, but we were both too tense for it to be very funny.

After a moment, I confessed "I always knew this day would come."

"Hmm?"

"I always knew there was going to be a time when our jobs got in the way of being good parents."

"We're not in control of the plane." Matt said, the slant of his eyebrow saying _well, we could have been, but that would have drawn a lot of attention._

"I know, but… a month after mom died, dad missed mine and Abby's ballet recital. It was on a Friday evening, and he just _forgot_ to put it on his schedule, and instead, he made plans to spend the weekend at Camp David. He left without even telling us. It was one of those moments that, even though I was twelve, I knew I was never going to do that."

Matt placed on of his hand on top of mine—I had been picking at my hangnails without noticing. And I was surprised to see how warm his hands were in the cold cabin.

"Well, unlike your dad, we'll apologize to Cam. And we'll explain to her that we did everything we could to get home in time that wouldn't result in our arrest at the hands of an Air Marshal."

"I know. I still feel guilty, though."

"Me too."

I took a deep breath, and looked out the window to my left—through the clouds, I could see that the flat plains that had been there the last time I checked had given way to rolling hills and trees. It wouldn't be long until it was time to face the music.

"We'll have other moments." I murmured, mostly to reassure myself. "Her graduation from Gallagher—if she goes. College—if she goes."

Okay. So maybe that wasn't the most reassuring train of thought.

Matt was quiet for nearly three minutes, as he stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him.

"Were you serious about the hamster?"

 _Okay. Not where I expected the conversation to return._

I shrugged.

"She's responsible enough for a pet. Were you serious about letting her eat ice cream for dinner?"

"As a heart attack."

"Alright. Well, we can stop at the store and get some ice cream on the way home. And then we can go to the pet store tomorrow."

The pilot announced that the plane would soon descend. After assuring the flight attendant that no, we didn't have any trash, Matt sighed once again.

"I still feel really guilty."

"I feel so guilty."


	12. Matt Part Six

Matthew Morgan has always had _connections._

He'd joked about it, as a teenager who had resigned himself to accepting the attention that comes from being a big fish in a small pond. He was a star athlete and student, his family was one of the oldest and most respected ranching families in the area, and his mother was the town librarian. He joked, with a charming smile and a self-effacing laugh, that there would always be someone who owed him a favor simply because he was Matthew Morgan.

He'd done the same thing in college. His friends were numerous and eclectic—nearly every sports team, student club, and classroom at Georgetown had someone who knew and liked Matthew Morgan.

His own extracurriculars weren't extensive in college, but focusing on his studies had paid off. He took the risk of enrolling in a 300-level history course as a freshman, wrote one little fifteen-page long research paper about the foundation of the CIA, and then received one politely worded invitation from Mary Callaghan, Ph.D. (Gallagher Class of 1964) of the political science department. Then suddenly, Matthew started to meet some interesting people who started to owe him some favors too.

Instead of having the star quarterback or the freshman class president as people he could count among his friends, Matt became best friends with a trained assassin. And then, after graduating from Georgetown and starting field work, he befriended assets and allies all over the globe.

And he wasn't afraid to use them.

"How?"

"I'll take it to my grave, darling." Matthew answered, kissing his wife's cheek.

 _His wife._

Phineas Cameron might have called in some favors to get an incredibly beautiful and incredibly secure mansion as the venue for his elder daughter's wedding, but Matt called some favors in for the honeymoon.

"Who?"

"I'm not going to tell you just because you rephrased your question."

"It's just that you shouldn't be able to afford this—"

"Are you really going to start off our honeymoon by discussing our finances? I don't think that's very auspicious, Rach."

"And that's not to mention that this hotel is very popular, and even if you booked this the very day that we got engaged, over five months ago, it couldn't have been easy to get a room."

"I have a very good travel agent."

"Matthew—"

"They gave me a very good deal."

"Matthew—"

"Rachel. A friend owed me a favor, and they got us a free room for our honeymoon."

"A free room at the Shangri-La Hotel in Paris? For ten days?"

"The champagne is free, too."

The two of them were on the terrace of their luxurious hotel room, which had a magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower. Rachel was sitting on Matt's lap, her legs twisted sideways and thrown over the edge of the chair, while her head laid on Matt's shoulder. It was November—a week after Matthew's birthday and only two days since they'd said their vows in front of their friends and family and the Director of the CIA—and the two of them were wrapped up in a heavy wool blanket, leaving only the hands that held their flutes of champagne exposed to the chilly night air.

"You really shouldn't keep secrets from your wife, you know?"

 _His wife._

Matt smirked.

"What?

"Say that again, please."

"What? _You really shouldn't keep secrets from your wife, you know?_ "

Matt's smirk grew into a wide, cheesy smile.

"Yeah. I really like the part where you refer to yourself as my wife."

"Well, you are my husband." Rachel said, bringing her other hand from out from under the blanket to trace her fingers along Matt's jaw.

"Yeah, that sounds really nice too. Maybe even better."

"You're a dork, Matthew Morgan."

"You married me, Rachel Morgan."

"I did."

The two of them smiled and searched each other's eyes for the sign that they were each as happy as the other. Rachel realized that Matt hadn't stopped smiling. Matthew thought that Rachel was glowing.

They kissed, slow and warm, as they were both distracted by their need to remember that here they were, in the city where they met, together, on their honeymoon. They broke apart only once they saw, through their eyelids, a bright flash of light.

Together, they turned to watch as the light at the top of the Eiffel Tower lit up and spun across the city, and as the lights that decorated the crossed metal beams of the structure glittered.

"How did you get this room?" Rachel asked again, after a moment. She was both in awe and totally suspicious.

"The King of Adria pulled some strings for us."

"Matt."

"An asset who just happens to be an international art thief set it up."

"Matt."

"Do you want the truth?"

"Yes."

Matt sighed.

"I had a meeting with a cutout here, in the lobby. It was a while ago… I think it was only my third or fourth time out in the field as a full agent. Everything went perfectly well. Then I stopped to use a phone in the lobby to get in contact with my handler, and just as I was leaving, all of the lamps near the front desk went out. I—well, I _eavesdropped_ on the concierge trying to get in contact with an electrician, but they were all busy. So I lied and told the concierge that I was involved in construction, and that I could take a look at the wiring for her if she wanted. And it was a good thing that I did, because an agent from—well, that's classified—was in the maintenance closet directly behind the lobby's front desk, and accidently displaced a wire while they were trying to plant some bugs. Then there was a bit of a, well, _kerfuffle_ , and then I tied the enemy agent up with the cord on a vacuum. Then I fixed the wiring problem and handed the enemy agent over to some friends from the Paris field office, and even though this was three or four years ago, the concierge remembered me and gave me a deal."

Matt smiled sheepishly as Rachel began to giggle.

"Matthew Morgan. Are you joking?"

"No, I'm not."

"That's so typical of you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that not only do you interrupt an enemy op _on accident,_ you offer to help someone and then earn their eternal gratitude by helping them with an electrical problem in their very expensive hotel."

"Is that a problem?"

"You know it's not. I love you Matthew Morgan."

"I love you, Rachel Morgan."

After sharing a silly smile between them, Rachel rested her head on her new husband's shoulder. Together, they watched the Eiffel Tower until the lights stopped glittering. Once the lights remained steadily on, Rachel asked quietly,

"So if the concierge asks how the construction business is going—"

"Oh, I think it's going very well." Matt kissed Rachel gently on the crown of her head as his free hand escaped from under the blanket and grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table beside them.

She watched as he refilled their glasses, before answering, "Really? I think so too."


	13. Rachel Part Seven

**Hello readers! I just wanted to say thank you for everyone who has given this story a chance, and a special thank you to everyone who's reviewed! This story recently hit a pretty big landmark number for the number of views on the story, and I really appreciate it. In comparison, I know I haven't gotten many reviews or favorites or follows, but I really appreciate everyone who has. I know the Gallagher Girls fandom is an older, quiet (but not dead!) fandom, but I mostly started writing this as a challenge to myself, and for my own satisfaction, so the attention that I have gotten from readers is super great!**

* * *

"Kiddo?"

"What, mom?"

Cam was sitting at the little desk that sat in the corner of her bedroom, her back turned to me. There were papers scattered across the top of her desk, and the box of her new colored pencils was open and leaning against her lamp.

"Aunt Abby's back from her trip. Do you want to go meet her for lunch? And then maybe we could go to the playground?"

"Yeah! Just gimme a minute, mommy." Cam's head swung around so she could answer me, but she went right back to work at whatever was on her desk.

I took two steps inside of her room, stepping over the jump rope and dolls that lay scattered across the floor so I could look at what she was doing.

"Are those the puzzles daddy gave you?" I asked. There were logic puzzles, basic decryption puzzles, and riddles, all printed on pages and solved in a rainbow of colored pencil.

"Yeah. But, can you check this last one for me? It's different than the other ones."

She slid off of her little chair and held a paper out for me to take. This paper, unlike the other ones, had been printed with an old matrix dot printer. On the paper were rows and rows of numbers and letters, and under them, written in grass-green pencil, was a decrypted message about a CIA field office in Qatar.

"I'm not sure if it's right." Cam said, biting her lower lip and crossing her arms.

"Why do you think you didn't do it right?" I asked, trying to come to terms with the fact that I was looking at an NSA Sapphire Series Code, and that my daughter, who had just finished pre-school, had decrypted it.

 _How did she even get—_

"Well, you and daddy said that the letters Q and U go together, but I don't know that word—" She pointed at the word _Qatar_ , "But the Q is followed by an A, so I think I might have done it wrong, but all of the other As seem like they're in the right place, so—"

"No, sweetie, this is exactly right. Qatar is a place—it's a country in the Middle East. Its name is Arabic, and the Q and U rule doesn't really apply." _My four-year-old daughter just cracked an NSA code._ "This is a very difficult puzzle, kiddo. I'm really proud of you for solving it."

I crouched down to give Cam a one-armed hug, all the while looking message she had decrypted.

"Thanks, mommy." She mumbled into my shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, I let her go. She was smiling, her blue eyes sparkling.

"I'm going to take this." I said, standing up and smoothing the hem of my shirt. "Why don't you change into a shirt that doesn't have a jelly stain on it, and then, before we go meet Aunt Abby, we can show this to daddy together?"

"Okay." Cam agreed, spinning and scampering over to her closet.

I snuck out of her room, and crept down the stairs. I found Matt in the tiny office next to the living room. He was looking through piles of manila folders that held totally innocuous personal papers, like our tax records.

"Would you, by chance, be looking for an NSA Sapphire Series coded message about a field office in Qatar?"

"Oh my god, where did you find it?" He sighed, looking up from an overstuffed folder. He looked immediately relieved.

"Cam had it."

He blinked twice, slowly, his eyes as wide as an owl's.

"Did she?"

"Yes. And she decrypted it, too."

"What?" In two strides, he was next to me, looking down at the printed message and our daughter's translation in disbelief. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"She, uh…"

"Thought it was another puzzle."

"Well, it technically _is._ "

"You gave our daughter a document that contains information that you need at least a level five or six clearance level to know about, and it was encrypted with a level four NSA code."

"Yes." Matt said slowly, looking down at the paper in dismay.

"You're supposed to turn this in with your mission report, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Colored pencil is difficult to erase."

"I know."

He glanced up from our daughter's sloppy green writing, and, looking at me, sighed.

Matt looked so utterly reconciled that I couldn't stop myself—I giggled.

"Sorry, Rach, are you laughing at me? Or are you laughing at the situation?"

"Both." I smirked, turning just in time to see Cammie slip in the room, wearing a clean shirt.

"Daddy? Did you see I solved the puzzle?"

"I did see. I'm proud of you, sweetie."

Matt picked our daughter up, and held her in his arms as he kissed her on the crown of her head.

"Can we take it with us so we can show Aunt Abby what I did?" Cam asked, pointing to the paper in my hands. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh, sweetie, I don't want to get anything on it. What if you spill your juice on it? Or what if Aunt Abby gets ketchup on it?"

Cam's frowned slightly, and looked down at the paper in Matt's hands.

"Okay." She accepted. "We'll leave it here."

As Matt's eyes widened in relief, I took mercy on him and stole Cammie from his arms.

"Come on, kiddo. Let's go put your shoes on."

I gave him one final self-righteous smirk—which he matched with a glare that was equal parts embarrassed and irritated—before striding out of the room to track down Cam's sandals.


	14. Matt Part Seven

**Hello everyone! Sorry this chapter is late, but 1. I had a little trouble writing it, and 2. I've had family visiting this week, so I couldn't really find much time to write. Anyway, the good news is that I have the next few chapters finished already, so regular posting should resume. And as always, thanks for reading!**

* * *

Despite what their friends and family might have joked and teased, Rachel and Matthew had arguments—they were just much better at resolving them than most young couples. Neither one of them enjoyed being angry, even though both Matthew and Rachel were known to have fearsome and imposing tempers. They were both too rational, their understanding and their convictions and their priorities too much in sync for any serious misunderstandings or arguments to occur. Issues between the two of them resolved too quickly to really build up steam.

Most of the time.

Of course, there must always be an exception.

Now, Matthew and Rachel Morgan were not a typical couple. Typical couples didn't have a series of physical and cyber dead drops set up so that they can communicate with each other even while operating in deep cover. Typical couples didn't meet at a prearranged time and introduce themselves with a code about hydrangeas and then flirt with each other while searching for three ex-KGB agents in Paris. Typical couples didn't have to sweep their newly purchased 3-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom townhouse in Arlington for bugs and other security breaches every evening after work.

But even Matthew and Rachel Morgan could fight about the kinds of things that most couples fight about. Like money, their careers, and their long-term plans for their shared life.

Three months after they said their vows and after they returned from a perfect 10 days in Paris, Matthew was called to a meeting under the Pentagon City Mall to meet with certain members of the Department of Operative Development. He really had no idea what the people of Operative Development might possibly have to say to him, but in his business, that wasn't unusual.

Still, Matt was a little surprised and a little weary as he returned to his car in the mall's parking lot on that bitterly cold February morning. He wanted to talk to someone about it, but Rachel would be in meetings all day, and Joe was somewhere in South Africa. He could, part of him thought, call and talk to his mother—he could make her understand the situation without violating any kind of confidentiality laws by speaking in very, very vague terms—but decided against it. Instead, as Matt mindlessly finished the paperwork from his latest mission, he had no choice but to think about the meeting by himself.

And during this time, Matthew came to some incorrect—but fair—conclusions.

Later, that night, over a dinner of dumplings and orange chicken from their new favorite Chinese take-out place, Matt finally had a chance to tell his wife about the meeting. He had been thinking about it all afternoon, but he still rambled slightly as he explained the situation to the woman who sat cross-legged on the couch beside him.

"They offered me a job. Surveillance and Evasion teacher at Blackthorne. I'd be gone through the week eight months of the year, with travel back to DC provided every weekend. But the pay would be much better—just under twice what I'm making now, and I have room to negotiate—with much less risk. I don't like anything that I've heard about Blackthorne, but Joe and some of the other alumnus are trying to change how the school is run. I'm not one of them—I wouldn't fit in there—but I could help change the school."

"Do you… Do you want to?" Rachel asked, looking entirely unsettled as a dumpling slipped out from between her chopsticks.

"Rachel." Matt said, his voice more steady and even and his eyes more serious. "If we… _There is no equivalent to Gallagher for boys_. If we have a son, I don't want him to experience the things that I have heard about Blackthorne. Gallagher is incredible, but I've spent years wondering how Joe could possibly be as _well-adjusted_ of a human being as he is after having gone to Blackthorne. I want our future child to have the best possible education. I don't want them to feel _suffocated,_ or _unchallenged_ , the way that I did. I want the _spread their wings and fly_ cliché for them. If we have a daughter, she's set—we'll have the greatest little Gallagher Girl. But it's not so straightforward if we have a son."

"Well. First, I don't really appreciate that you've already decided that our child is going to go to either Gallagher or Blackthorne—"

"Rachel, doesn't it seem inevitable? With two parents in the business?"

"No, Matthew, it's not inevitable." Rachel, said, raising her voice. She leaned forward to put her plate on the coffee table, and sat up to look her husband in the eye. "We are only going to send our child to either of those schools once we actually _have a child_ and get to know them and then we decide if it would be the best thing for them to go to Gallagher or to go to Blackthorne. But are you really doing to make such a drastic change for the sake of a child that I'm not even pregnant with? Are you really ready to make a change that will mean that you're in _Maine_ for three quarters of the year? We've been married for three months, Matthew. Do you want to commit to something that will change our marriage _now?_ Do you want to be away from each other, so consistently, for eight months out of the year?

"I don't _want_ those things, Rachel, but practically, there are advantages."

"Practicality? You think this should be decided just on _practicality_?"

"I haven't decided anything, Rachel, but I was thinking—" Matt's voice grew steadily louder.

"Oh, _what were you thinking_?" Rachel's voice grew steadily sharper and more dangerous.

"I thought you would want me out of the field!" Matt said, spinning sideways on the couch to match Rachel's steady glare head on. "I thought you would understand that, if I were to accept this job, then I would be in a better position to make sure that you have all of the support you need at home to continue going into the field. I know I would be gone, but we could hire a nanny, so if Abby or Joe or your father aren't available to watch our child, then you wouldn't have to pass up a mission that might make your whole career. That's one less sacrifice that you would have to make. And it wouldn't be ideal to be gone for so long, but I'll have the whole summer with you and our child, and I would make every moment count. I don't want to leave this business, but you have to see that having one of us leave the field would do nothing but benefit our family."

Matt felt, his heart racing, that he had expressed himself quiet well. But Rachel stared at him, her eyes wide, her anger mixed with disbelief.

"Do you want _me_ out of the field? Because I don't want to leave the field, and I would _never_ ask you to make a decision that I wouldn't make." Rachel's jaw was set, her eyes narrow. "I don't want you to play it safe for my sake. Matthew Morgan, you're a damn good operative, and so am I. I don't think either of us should leave the field until we're ready, and I don't think you're ready. I know I'm not ready; even if we find out that I'm pregnant _tomorrow,_ I'm going to return to the field when I can."

"Rachel, I know. I would _never_ ask you to leave the field. And I'm not ready to leave the business, yet, but I don't know. I could leave the field if I needed to. But I haven't decided yet—I've only been making a list of the pros and cons since they asked me. I wasn't going to decide anything without you."

But Rachel just shook her head. As she took three deep breaths and forced her eyes shut, her shoulders relaxed. Slowly, she replied.

"Matt. I love you. I want us to be happy. I want us to have a happy family. Of course, I want you to be safe, and I want nothing but the best for our future child. But I don't want to upset _this._ We're still newlyweds, Matt. I don't think we can really decide what we want for ourselves _long term_ until we've had some time to think about it. I want us to be happy and safe but I don't want either of us to regret anything because regrets don't make you happy. Do you—do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

His jaw set, Matt nodded.

"Of course, Rach."

Nodding in return, Rachel looked away and cleared her throat.

"Okay. Why don't we—why don't we take thirty minutes to just— _think—_ and then we can talk about it again."

"Okay."

"I'll clean up." Rachel said, picking up their plates, and walking, tall, to the kitchen, while Matt sat rigidly on the edge of the couch.

The next day, during a break between two meetings, Matthew Morgan dropped by the Department of Operative Development. While he was there, he informed the Director of Secondary Education that, while he was honored to be asked, he must regretfully decline the position of Surveillance and Evasion teacher at the Blackthorne Institute.


	15. Interlude

"…"

"…"

"She's beautiful."

"Mmhmm. She's _perfect_."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"I think she has your nose."

"Really?"

"Mmhmm."

"…"

"…"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"…"

"…"

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, we agreed we would decide on a name once she was born. Any suggestions?"

"Hmm. I didn't imagine that I would be so tired once she was born. Not—I mean, I'm not as tired as you are—you are certainly more tired than I am, sweetie. But I'm not sure if I have any inspiration in me."

"Why don't we just throw out suggestions until we pick one? The first thing that comes to mind."

"Okay. Lily."

"No, no _noun_ names. Victoria?"

"Hmm. I think it's a little too formal. Emily?"

"No. Jane from Gallagher and Ted in the Counterintelligence Department both have girls named Emily. What about Lydia?"

"I like Lydia, but I think she needs something a little more… Substantial. What about—I know we both liked the idea of giving her a family name, but couldn't decide on one, and I know it's not traditionally feminine—but what about Cameron?"

"Cameron Morgan?"

"There's nickname potential. We could call her Cammie. Or Cam. Cameroon—actually, we probably shouldn't call her that. But you have to admit, if we ever lose her, there's a certain community of people who are going to know exactly who her parents are if we name her Cameron Morgan."

"Would—would that be vain of me?"

"I don't think so."

"Cameron Morgan. Cammie Morgan. Hmm. It sounds good. It sounds strong… I like it."

"… I do too."

"What about a middle name?"

"Cameron Rachel Morgan?"

"No, that's horrible. Cameron Ann Morgan?"

"Why Ann?"

"For Andrew, Annemarie, and I suppose for Vivian. We're naming her after as many family members as possible."

"Cameron Ann Morgan. Welcome to the world, darling."

* * *

 **Quick note: if you didn't figure it out, Rachel is the first speaker, and Matt is the second speaker, and they alternate every line.**


	16. Rachel Part Six

**I'm super sorry this one took so long-I had laptop issues, so I wrote the ending of this in the doc editor on fanfic dot net so that I could finish the chapter on my ipad, but the doc editor gave me so many problems I** **ended up writing and re-writing the same section of this chapter 5 times (seriously) because it kept getting deleted. It made me super frustrated, but I generally like this chapter, so I hope you do to!**

 **Also, thank you for the super kind reviews you've been submitting. The reviews for the last chapter especially were very kind (although, it was a pretty cute chapter, if I do say so myself) and I really appreciated them. Thank you for reading and reviewing!**

* * *

I've always tended to get sick at the worst possible moment. When I was a kid, before I was at Gallagher, I got the stomach flu three Christmases in a row. I had strep throat on my 16th birthday, the flu on my 21st, and possibly the worst of all, I came down with chickenpox the day before we buried my mother.

My immune system has gotten stronger since then, but I still tend to come down with colds and coughs and infections at the worst possible times.

Two mornings before Matt left for a three-week long mission to a classified location, I was pretty certain that I was coming down with something. I woke up and the idea of having anything more substantial than orange juice for breakfast made my stomach turn, and I felt the general sense of _sluggish malaise_ that I always feel when I'm about to get sick.

Matt was concerned, as he usually is when confronted with a problem that he couldn't do anything to solve, but I was able to rationalize my lack of appetite and exhaustion. I'd just gotten back from a long week of wearing suits and eavesdropping on diplomatic meetings in Australia. I told him I was still jetlagged, and that my appetite must be lagging behind as well.

When Matt kissed me goodbye and left early this morning, when the sky was still inky black, I was feeling roughly the same way that I had been feeling for two days— _off_.

My revelation came two hours after he left, when the newspaper was dropped on our front doorstep.

It was _Sunday_.

I should have gotten my period on _Tuesday_. Since going off my birth control, I have gotten every single one of my periods on a Tuesday.

It stared at the date on the front page (April 6) for precisely 30 seconds before I _knew_ that I was pregnant. A late period and a general lack of appetite weren't exactly incontrovertible evidence— _it wouldn't hold up in court_ —but I work in intelligence and not law enforcement for a reason. My intuition told me that I was pregnant and that was all I needed.

Also, Matt and I had been trying to get pregnant, so it's not exactly a crazy assumption.

And then I lived through the two longest hours of my life. It was six in the morning on a Sunday, and while I could have gone to the medical center in Langley to take the blood test immediately, I didn't. My coworkers are the worst gossips I know, and I knew the second I walked into headquarters on my day off, I would be swarmed by people who _just had to know_ what brought me there.

So for two hours, I waited for the nearest pharmacy to open, and then, after those two hours, I decided to wait another hour, because I didn't want to look too eager or too panicked as I bought a pregnancy test first thing in the morning. I tried every possible thing I could think of to distract myself, including but not limited to cleaning the bathroom (but then I worried about the chemicals in the cleaners, should I be avoiding them?), doing laundry (what about fabric softener, is that safe?), reading mission reports (but that did nothing to calm me down), and meditation (which I have always been bad at). Once all of those failed, I took a long shower. I hadn't planned on spending so long in the shower, but I was trying to find any sign that my body had changed—I didn't find one. And then I dressed, pulled my hair up, and spent five whole minutes working up the courage to grab my keys and walk out the front door.

I had planned on walking to the pharmacy, to give the crisp morning air a chance to clear my head, but then I realized I would have to walk back from the pharmacy with a pregnancy test, and it's one thing to walk a half of a mile with a bomb in your purse, but it's another to walk that far with a pregnancy test.

So I drove, ten miles an hour above the speed limit on the way there, and on the way back.

I had bought three tests—two to take today, and another to take the day of my doctor's appointment, which of course, I hadn't actually scheduled, but I knew there were several things that could cause a false positive, and it usually takes a few days to see the doctors at Langley unless there was an emergency—

And then I realized that technically, pregnancy was an emergency. No one in the Agency would even think about letting a pregnant operative in the field—all of my upcoming jobs would have to be re-assigned.

The overwhelming nausea that I felt as I take the first test is, I'm certain, the combination of stress and morning sickness.

As I sat on the tiled bathroom floor, and watched the kitchen timer count down, I thought.

 _If this test is positive, I will have to talk to the doctors at work._

 _But if this test is positive, and if the blood test at the doctor's is positive, which it will be, am I going to wait three weeks and let Matt be the first to know? Should I tell Abby? Or maybe Linda or Christine or Jennifer. Would one of them figure it out without me telling them? How obvious was it? Did I have that pregnant woman glow? Did that even exist? Mom didn't glow when she was pregnant with Abby, she was constantly sick and pale and she had told me that she had been the same way when she was pregnant with me. Would I take after her? Because mom was only in labor with Abby and myself for only about eight hours, and I wouldn't mind that, but—_

As I watched the timer slowly creep towards zero, I became more and more certain that I was pregnant, and more and more anxious about the fact that I didn't know what to do with myself if I did find out that I was pregnant. As there were three minutes left, I became so anxious that I threw up in the toilet. With two minutes left, I brushed my teeth.

With thirty seconds left, the phone rang. The _important_ phone, not the one that was connected to the number that could be found in the phonebook.

Without thinking, I dashed down the hall and picked up the phone.

"It's Joe."

"Hey," I replied. "What's up?"

Ten seconds until the timer rang.

"Rachel?" Joe asked, drawing out my name. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no. Nothing's wrong. I'm just in the middle of—"

The timer rang.

"Rachel, are you _cooking_?"

"No, Joe, I need—I need to put the timer—I mean, the phone—down for just a minute."

Without waiting for a reply, I dropped the phone, which dangled by its cord against the wall. I ran halfway to the bathroom, and then realized that if I slipped on the hardwood floor, that would be very bad, so I kind of skipped and jumped the rest of the way down the hall.

I'd left the test immediately next to the sink, and without even looking closely, I could see the second line on the test.

 _I'm pregnant._

 _I'm pregnant._

I quickly snatched up the test, and stared at the two little blue lines as my feet carried me back to the phone.

"Hello, Rachel? Rach, are you okay?"

"I'm pregnant."

There was a sudden and complete silence in the receiver.

I didn't realize that I'd picked up the phone, or said anything out loud.

Or that the very first person that I'd told about my pregnancy was my husband's best friend.

"That's… That's amazing, Rach. When did you find out?"

"Fifteen seconds ago."

I leaned against the wall, and slid down to the floor.

"… So I take it I called at a bad time?"

"Kind of. But you are officially the first person to know." _That I'm pregnant._

"I'm… honored. How—how far are you?"

 _The development of a pregnancy is counted from the last day of the woman's last period before her missed period_ , my seventh-grade biological science teacher's voice reminded me.

"Only four weeks."

"So… Matt doesn't know because—"

"Because I had no idea until after he left this morning."

"Oh. Well. That's—that's not good timing." I don't think I have ever heard Joe Solomon ever sound so far out of his depth. "Listen, about that—I called to see if, since Matt's out of town, you wanted to get lunch? If you feel up to it."

"I feel fine." _I feel pregnant._ "Did you have somewhere in mind?" _Do I really_ feel _pregnant or does knowing that I'm pregnant just change things?_

"I was thinking that café in Rosslyn that Dave recommended."

"That sounds great. Noon?"

"That's perfect. I'll see you then, Rach."

Joe Solomon was, as he usually is, a source of wisdom and understanding. As we sat and ate our sandwiches and sipped our coffee (mine, I realized just as I was ordering, needed to be decaff), he helped me to decide that I was going to wait until Matt came home to tell him about the baby (since, apparently, his mission was low-risk, a fact that Joe knew that I did not), and that, aside from Joe, I wasn't going to tell anyone else until I could tell Matt. Joe also agreed to serve as my ally in my secret keeping over the next few weeks.

The following day, I stopped by the doctor's offices during my lunch hour, and the blood test they gave me confirmed what I had known for the past twenty four hours—I was pregnant. The doctors set up an appointment at my civilian OB/GYN's office, gave me a few pamphlets on what I was and was not supposed to eat and do while pregnant, and officially placed me on the desk-work-only list; the op I was supposed to go on at the end of the following week was going to be immediately reassigned to another operative. Within thirty minutes of returning to my desk, I was met with my first test.

Christine, who was supposed to be my handler on my just-canceled op, stopped by my desk. I'd known Christine since our very first day at Gallagher.

"Hey, Rach. Is everything okay? Why did the doctors bench you?" She asked, leaning against my desk.

"It's nothing too bad, Chris. I have a stomach ulcer—" I gave a half-hearted wave to the new bottle of antacids on my desk. "The docs don't want me in the field until it's gone."

"Really?" She asked. Her eyes flickered down to my hands, which were folded in my lap—once upon a time, picking at my nails used to be my tell. But my hands remained steady.

"Mmhmm. Apparently, vomiting in the middle of a field op isn't very covert. Anyway, who did they reassign the op to?"

"Oh, a rookie Blackthorne boy." She rolled her eyes. "So we'll see how he manages to mess up a simple intell exchange."

And then she left.

As Christine walked out of my cubicle and down to the break room to the right, Joe Solomon appeared to from the hall to the left.

"Hey, Rach—how are you feeling?" He asked. He was turned toward me, but I noticed him watching as Christine walked away in his periphery.

"I have a stomach ulcer." I said, my voice flat. _Wouldn't it have been great if he had showed up two minutes ago?_

"Oh." He said, nodding. "Well, I hope you feel better soon."

The next test came when Abby arrived home from a two-week-long op. She stopped by my cubicle immediately after her debriefing was finished, and, without asking, pushed aside my files and reports and sat on my desk.

"Hey, do you want to go and grab some drinks after work and catch up?"

"I can't." I shook my head. "I have a stomach ulcer—I can't drink. Do you want to get pizza instead?"

"A stomach ulcer?" She asked.

"Yeah. I haven't had an appetite since this weekend." As I replied, I noticed her eyes flicker down to my hands, waiting to see if I was lying.

 _Did no one think that I might have learned to fix my most obvious tell?_

"Hmm. Well, pizza sounds good. Actually, can your stomach ulcer handle pizza? The tomato sauce is acidic—"

"Oh." Right. I hadn't thought of that. "White pizza?"

"Sure." She shrugged. "Anyway, I have to drop by the disguise room to return a ball gown I borrowed. See you later." With a little wave of her fingers, she slid off of my desk. Just as she exited my cubicle, her head turned, she called out, "Hey Joe!" and then left.

A half a beat behind her, Joe Solomon appeared, his eyebrows raised.

"I still have a stomach ulcer. Also, Abby pointed out that I can't have pizza."

And he, without questioning the totally absurd things which I said, nodded, turned on his heels, and left.

Another test came midway through the second week of Matt's absence, the midway point of my time of secret-keeping. That was the first morning that my daily lack of appetite and sluggishness turned into full-blown morning sickness. And of course, it couldn't have happened when I was home. My own breakfast of oatmeal and herbal tea sat with my stomach as well as anything possibly could, but twenty minutes after getting to work and settling into my desk, the smell of my neighbor's coffee turned my stomach so suddenly that I was immediately running to the bathroom.

As I was washing my mouth out with water from the sink, Linda emerged from one of the bathroom stalls behind me. Her face was twisted into a look of panic as she took in my complexion and watery eyes.

"Stomach ulcer." I said, shaking my head, and darting out of the bathroom.

Standing along the opposite wall, next to the door to the men's restroom, was, once again, Joe Solomon.

Taking a steadying breath, I asked, "Does anyone believe that I have a stomach ulcer?"

Joe looked at me for just a moment, before simply replying "Some people."

I nodded.

"Okay."

And then I returned to my desk.

After that, I started coming into work later than was usual. I invented another lie when Abby, Linda, Christine, and some of my other friends noticed that I was coming in later and staying later. After that, not only did I have a stomach ulcer, I also had a plumber coming into to update the upstairs bathroom who I needed to let into the townhouse every morning (and then watch, just incase he was a foreign operative).

I knew that nearly everyone at the Agency that I was close to was suspicious about my illness and my behavior, but I was determined. Matt deserved to be the first person to know that we were expecting a baby, and I _wanted_ to tell Matt before I told anyone else. Before I told Abby, before I told my father, before I told my friends. I wanted to tell Matt.

And finally, finally, Matt's three week long op came to a close.

Matt was scheduled to be home in time for dinner, but I knew that was unlikely to happen. Debriefings and check ups at the doctor's offices always take longer than expected, and there are always more people wandering around the halls at Langley who wanted to welcome you home and tell you about what you missed while you were gone. Regardless, I was going to wait up for Matt, to welcome him home.

And tell him. Because I'd already waited long enough to let him know that we, in mid January, would welcome a perfect and beautiful baby to our family.

It was nearing midnight when Matt called and said that his debrief was finally over, and that he would be home soon. I, once again, tried and failed to find a way to occupy my time as I waited that final twenty minutes. So I just curled up, in my sweatpants and one of Matt's Georgetown sweatshirts, in the new armchair we had bought together, and waited. As soon as I heard a car pull into the driveway, I was up, I disable the alarm system, and was standing in the cold night air before Matt was even able to pull his duffle bag from the back seat.

"Hey, there." I called. Matt's head snapped up, and he smiled once he saw me. I smiled in return, even as I noticed a small cut, and another scab, along the right side of his jaw. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, he pushed the car door shut and _scampered_ up the driveway and up the stairs.

"Rachel." He sighed. He wrapped his arms around me, and, spinning as if we were dancing in a grand ballroom, and pulled me inside. As the door swung shut and locked behind us, we kissed, and then wrapped our arms around each other, fitting together more closely than before—especially as Matt, who was so clearly exhausted, began to lean on me. He still smelled like airplane.

"Waiting at the door for me?" Matt asked, his words slightly slurred as he spoke into my shoulder.

"Mmhmm. Matt?" I loosened my embrace, and drew back. Matt's brows were scrunched together, and he, almost immediately started biting at his lip.

"What?" He asked.

"Matt, I'm pregnant."

After three seconds, his jaw dropped, and I swear, Matt grew two inches as he stood tall, as he held his shoulders straighter.

"Are you?"

I nodded. I couldn't help myself. I could feel my smile growing as his eyes searched my face for any and every sign of how I was feeling.

"Seven weeks." I answered.

"Oh my god." He sighed, and then hugged me again, his arms around my back rather than my waist. After a few moments spent remembering what it was like to be with each other and to hold each other, he started to run his fingers through the ends of my hair. "Rach."

"Yeah."

After a few moment's pause, he murmured "When did you find out?"

"The day you left." I whispered.

"Really?" It was Matt, this time, who pulled back. His eyes were sparkling.

"I wanted to wait and tell you in person."

"I'm glad you did. If you'd told me over the phone, or through a dead drop..." He shook his head, imagining a scenario too classified for me to imagine. "Thats..." He laughed once, and then kissed me soundly. He was obviously so tired, I could tell, but his smiled hadn't budged, his eyes were still shining. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"And I've known about them for a whole two minutes, but, I love our baby." Matt, said, sliding a hand down to my stomach. I rolled my eyes, but giggled. "Did—does anyone else know?"

My heart skipped a beat, but there was no point in lying. Not to Matt—

"Abby and some other friends at work have been suspicious of my morning sickness, but I haven't actually told them. As far as people who officially know, the doctor at Langley that gave me the blood test, my civilian gynecologist, and I, um, might have told Joe."

" _Joe_?"

"He, um, called to ask if I wanted to meet for lunch just as I was waiting for the first test to develop. I kind of... Blurted it out."

He laughed.

"Thats—wait, did you say morning sickness? How bad has it been?"

I shook my head.

"Matt, don't worry. It's not so bad. Although, there's a new house rule, and it's that there will be no more coffee in this house until the start of my second trimester, at the earliest."

"What?" He was both horrified and confused.

"We can talk about it in the morning. And we can celebrate tomorrow" I insisted, pushing the strap of his duffle bag off of Matt's shoulder, causing the bag itself to fall to the floor. "Come on. You're exhausted. Come to bed."

Matt sighed.

"That's the second most wonderful thing you've said since I got home. God, I love you."

"I love you too." And then, taking him by the hand, I led him up the steps.


	17. Matt Part Eight

**As always, thank you to everyone who reviewed recently! I've gotten some really sweet, meaningful reviews, and I really appreciate it.**

 **Anyway, I wanted to warn my readers that my summer job with my local community theater will likely interfere with my posting schedule over the next few weeks, as my life is going to be totally crazy. However, I'm hoping to post at least two or three chapters over the next two weeks, and I've nearly completed the story, so don't worry-I'm not leaving this story uncompleted.**

* * *

Joe looked at the brand-new picture on Matt's desk, in its white wooden frame.

"She's beautiful." He said, looking at the photo of the proud parents with their three-month-old baby daughter. It had been taken the weekend before. They were standing in front of a blossoming cherry tree, with the Jefferson Memorial in the background. Rachel and Matthew were beaming, and the chubby-cheeked baby with blue eyes gazed directly at the camera from her place in her mother's arms.

"I know. Everyone keeps saying she looks like me, but I think she looks like Rachel."

"She has your coloring, but I think she has Rachel's nose. And chin. Although, with a name like Cameron Morgan, no one's going to have any doubt who she belongs to, anyway."

"That's what I told Rachel at the hospital when Cam was born. If she ever gets lost wandering around Pentagon City Mall, someone will know exactly what to do with her."

Joe laughed.

"You know, you could have just named her _Future Deputy Director of the CIA_ Morgan."

"Oh, Joe. Don't doom the kiddo to a desk job already. Besides, it's Director or nothing."

Joe finally set the picture down, and leaned against Matt's desk.

"What, you don't want her to have a nice, safe desk job?"

"I will support Cammie in whatever career goals she develops. However, I do think it's a little premature to think about that just yet, because she doesn't even understand object permanence. Also, she is going to be a pavement artist like her old man, so it doesn't matter."

"Really? You think a Cameron will be a pavement artist?"

"Father's intuition." Matt leaned back in his desk chair, and crossed his arms behind his head. He sighed. "Listen, Joe,"

"Of course."

Matt shook his head indignantly.

"Don't pretend that you know what I'm going to ask."

"Of course I do. You want me to promise to look after Rachel and Cameron in case anything happens to you."

Matt nodded, slowly. _Of course Joe already knew_.

"Yeah."

"And of course, I will. Rachel already asked me to look after you and Cameron if something happens to her."

"When did you see Rach—forget I asked. Of course she did."

"Abby asked me if I wanted to share custody of Cammie as a dysfunctional Aunt and Pseudo Uncle tag team in case something happened to the both of you."

"Of course she did."

After Matt finished rolling his eyes, the two men were stuck in a state of brotherly, affectionate nodding for a moment.

"Anyway, you should drop by after work and meet her. She's at the stage now where she's not quite so small that you have an existential crisis every time you pick her up."

"Maybe I will." Joe shrugs. Joe has never really liked kids and babies—Matt knew this—he just didn't really know what to do with them. But surely, he could deal with his best friends' baby. "I have a gift for her."

"What is it, _baby's first sniper rifle_?"

"It's _baby's first polygraph,_ actually."

The two men laughed as quietly as they could, conscious of the fact that they were in the middle of the office's bullpen, surrounded by their co-workers in their own cubicles.

"What about _baby's first comms unit_? She can't talk yet, but I'm certain it would have a better range than the baby monitor my parents got us."

"It would go well with _baby's first signal scrambler._ "

"In a few years, we'll give Cam her first repelling cable so she can escape from her own crib."

"For her fifth birthday, I'll give her her first switch blade—it'll be hidden in a pinwheel."

"What about—"

Matt was about to suggest another horribly inappropriate present when a third man appeared over Joe's shoulder.

"Hello, Morgan."

"Hello, Edwards."

Maxwell Edwards was holding a large stack of files in his hands. He set them down on Matt's desk, giving a polite nod to Joe, and quickly glanced at the new photo that sat next to the Georgetown mug where Matt kept all of his pens.

"I'm sorry to have to give this to you on your first day back from paternity leave, but this is the transcript from your debrief after Osaka. As usual, initial and sign on the dotted lines. How's mother and baby, by the way?"

"They're both doing great. They're both perfectly happy and healthy."

"You named her Cameron?"

"Yeah. We to give her a family name for Rachel's side of the family, but that was the only family name we really liked."

Edwards shrugged.

"Well, I was given a family surname for my first name. I like Cameron, it's strong, and it's not a bad family name to carry. Anyway, I need to get to a meeting with Morrison and Newman. Give my regards to Rachel." And he turned and left.

Matt looked, dismayed, at the new pile of reports that he needed to look over, and then turned and looked up at Joe.

 _I've never liked him_ , Joe mouthed. Matt shrugged in reply. He didn't either, but he really wasn't in the mood to think about the things he didn't enjoy.

Their earlier jovial mood killed, Joe clapped Matt on the shoulder, and left him behind to go and tackle his own paperwork.


	18. Rachel Part Five

**Brief content warning: this chapter contains references to alcohol and binge drinking. Also, since GG is a YA series, I thought I would mention, that I am in no way condoning binge drinking in this chapter. All of the drinking in this chapter is done responsibly by intelligent and responsible adult women, in the spirit of celebration.**

* * *

"I. Feel. Great." I proclaimed, stretching my arms out and taking wider strides town the sidewalk. Behind me, Abby, a half a dozen of my friends from Gallagher and from work, and Grace Baxter walked together, but they were walking too slow. The music from the club we had just left was still echoing in my head, and I could feel myself walking in time with the beat.

Tonight was a night of celebration and fun—I could do what I wanted.

"Grace!" Abby shouted, linking her arms with Christine's and Linda's. "What's the future Mrs. Morgan up to?"

"Three shots of tequila, two shots of vodka, four shots with clever innuendos for names, and a bottle of champagne since tonight's festivities began after dinner. Also, plenty of water."

"I love champagne." I said, walking backwards so I could see all of my friends and sisters. They were all laughing and flushed and happy, and I was glad we'd found the time out of all of our schedules to get together. "Hey, Linda? Jenn? Remember when I smuggled in an entire crate of champagne into Gallagher just before graduation?"

"How did you even manage that?" Linda asked, shaking her head and laughing. I could see her breath in the night air—it was early November, and it had snowed a few days ago—but none of us could really feel the cold.

"I impersonated the chef and ordered it on the phone, then knocked out the guard at the gate when they made the delivery."

"That was all?" Abby asked, looking totally betrayed. "There wasn't a flock of pigeons, or an elaborate costume in involved? The Rachel Cameron that I know and love—the Rachel Cameron I claim as a biological sister—has never developed a straightforward plan in her life!"

"Hey!" I protested. I was ready to defend myself when I stumbled over an uneven paver in the sidewalk—I caught myself at the last moment, because not even my heels and the alcohol I'd consumed were a match for my reflexes, but it was enough to derail the conversation.

"Rachel, love." Grace stepped forward, and offered me her arm. Even though I wasn't that drunk—I would admit that I was definitely drunk, but I wasn't drunk enough to be completely unreasonable—I accepted her arm. It was only polite—Madame Dabney taught me that. "You don't want to show up to your wedding with a broken ankle, now do you?"

"Hey Grace, have I ever mentioned that I think you're the best? You're just soooo—" Abby trailed off, trying to find the right word as we waited at a crosswalk. "You're so thoughtful. And reasonable. And I heard what you and Abe did in Marrakesh and I was _really_ impressed."

"Thank you, Abby." Grace said. She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. "After hearing about that extraction that you and Solomon pulled off in Istanbul a few months ago, your opinion means a lot to me."

"Thanks! Also," Abby continued. I turned my head around to see that she was gesturing sharply toward Grace. "Thank you for volunteering to be our sober escort tonight. As Maid of Honor, that was going to be my job, but I'll be honest—I'm hoping that, because Rach is changing her name, that I'm going to get fewer people asking ' _Oh, are you Rachel's sister?_ ' whenever they're introduced to me and I really wanted to celebrate that."

We rushed to cross the street together, and as we did, a brief thought flashed into my mind.

"Hey Grace?" I asked as we all returned to our normal walking speed. "Are you pregnant? Because you said you weren't feeling well, and you're not drinking—"

"No, I'm not pregnant." She answered. Her voice was tart, but her smile was teasing. "I'm on antibiotics for a sinus infection, nothing more. But, for the record, Abe and I have decided we'd like to have a baby soon."

"That's great!" My own excitement was echoed by the gaggle of our friends walking behind us. "I think you and Abe would be wonderful parents. I remember that time that you and me and Abe found ourselves in the middle of a schoolroom in Nairobi when we—"

"Ah ah ah." Grace chided. "That's classified."

"Sorry!"

"What about you and Matt, Rach? When do I get to be called Aunt Abby by a mob of young Morganites?"

"Well, we don't want to wait long to start a family—you know, there's never really a good time with our jobs, but neither of us want to be _old_ parents. But Matt and I agreed that we would only have one."

"You sound disappointed." Grace said, looking up at me concernedly.

Was Grace always this short? Or was I forgetting how tall my _going-out_ heels were?

"Well, Matt and I both have siblings—he's not close with his brother, but I have Abby—"

I heard Abby scamper up behind me, and she threw her arms around my neck.

"I love you too, Rach."

I continued.

"Anyway, just having one seemed like the most fair— _fairest_?—fairest thing to do. As we all know, our job doesn't exactly _pay well_ and if we needed to support two kids, we'd need to work more, but if we only have one, we can be a little more selective with our missions and then we can be home with them more."

"I understand." Grace murmured.

"I mean," I continued, "Maybe someday, when we're older and we've both settled into analyst jobs or adminim— _administrative_ jobs, maybe we'll have another. Or adopt." I was rambling. I knew I was rambling, but that seemed like a good moment to share that information with my friends, to let them know what I was thinking and feeling. It was _my_ bachelorette party, after all, and it was all totally unclassified, above the board intel and they could all be trusted. "I know I'm not at all objective about this, but I think Matt and I would have a really cute kid—"

There were enthusiastic agreements from my sisters and friends on the sidewalk behind me.

"So maybe we'll decide I want more. But, I mean _,_ it's just really weird, you know? To imagine myself growing old with Matt. We've had kind of a short engagement, but Matt and I have been pretty serious about each other since we met, and I just can't imagine—" _Why was I so breathless? We weren't walking that fast, was I just talking really fast?_ "I can't imagine being old and gray and bickering with Matt over things like what to watch on TV after dinner and what temperature to set the thermostat to. Maybe it's because—well, dad wasn't exactly young when we lost mom, but there was such a big age difference—but mom was pretty young when she died, so maybe it's because I don't know how old married couples _really_ act. Or maybe it's because—"

"I think it's because you're _so bad_ at everything domestic." Abby said, swatting at my arm with her clutch bag, while rolling her eyes.

"Hey!" I insisted. "I can—I can _sew._ And I can _clean_."

I was drunk. My feet were aching. I was tired. I had six days, fourteen hours, and twenty-two minutes until my father was supposed to escort me down the aisle, my sister would hold my bouquet and make sure the train of my dress was in order, and I would say my vows to and kiss the man who was so perfect for me that I could not have invented a more perfect husband in any universe (even the universe where there were no ethical boundaries to keep Dr. Fibs' from making that _build-a-man_ cyborg-production machine he designed my senior year.)

None of that was enough to distract me from recognizing that I was getting _maudlin_. And it certainly wasn't enough to distract me from the fact that Abby had just employed one of the most basic distraction techniques in the book (and one that she had always been pretty good at)— _annoying me_.

And I let it work.

It was my bachelorette party, after all. I deserved to be happy.

As we arrived at the final bar of the night, and I was greeted at the door by a chorus of congratulations from complete strangers who knew nothing about me or my life or my groom, I decided that I was going to be happy.


	19. Matt Part Nine

**Hello everyone! Sorry this one took so long-my free time has been non-existent over the past two weeks. Unfortunately, the next chapter is not yet written, and it will probably be short, but after that, it's all smooth sailing until the end. But hopefully you enjoy this chapter-it's not my favorite, but I wanted to include as many references to the moments that Cammie makes in the books about her childhood as possible, and I also wanted add another scene about spies being domestic. Thank you so much for sticking with this and for reading and reviewing!**

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By the time that Matt walked through the front door of the Morgan family's townhouse, the sky was completely dark, but it wasn't that late. He was careful to shut the door as quickly as possible to keep the cold and wind out; it was still technically fall, but as the winter solstice approached, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Outside, it was bitterly cold and windy; even though Matt had spent his day inside at headquarters in Langley, walking through that front door was the first moment all day where Matt felt he had finally escaped the cold.

"Hey, daddy."

Cammie was sitting on the floor next to the electric fireplace, opposite the Christmas tree. She was wearing the green Christmas sweater that his mom had sent a few weeks ago, in her hand was a mug of hot chocolate, and in her lap was a book.

"Hey, Camster." He cast her a smile, and then crossed the floor through the living room into the kitchen, where the old radio that sat on the corner of the counter was playing a jazzy arrangement of one of Rachel's favorite Christmas carols. Matt set a plastic bag down on the island countertop, and then turned to look at the little shadow that had followed him in perfect silence.

"You look very nice." She said, pulling herself up to sit at the stool on the end of the island as she examined her father's new tuxedo.

"Thank you, darling." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, and turned around to fix himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge. Behind him, he could hear the rustling of the plastic bag.

"What's this?"

Cam was holding a black plastic box with a clear lid, like a takeout box.

"That's mom's corsage for the night, kiddo."

"What's a corsage?" She asked, leaning over and pressing her face into the clear lid to see inside the best she could.

"It's a bracelet, but it's made out of real flowers. Women wear them for special occasions."

"Why?"

"I'll be honest, kiddo, I have no idea why." Setting his glass of water aside, Matt leaned onto the island. "But this one's special." Taking the box from Cam's outstretched hand, he popped the lid off and took out the delicate construction of cream colored flowers and gold ribbon. Pulling back the petal of a gardenia, he showed Cam the tiny little wire that ran through the corsage.

"Oh." She said, looking at the wire like it was the most impressive feat of human ingenuity she had ever seen, which Matt, as her father, knew was not true. After all, Bring Your Daughter to Work Day at the CIA always involved a trip to the R&D labs, and this corsage was nothing in comparison to some of the prototypes they kept there. "Is it a comms unit?"

"It is—just the microphone, though. The ear piece is separate."

She nodded, looking like the most serious first grader Matt had ever seen.

"Do you get anything cool?" She asked, and then a little sparkle emerged in her eye, and she twisted her lips in a small, expectant smile. It was an expression, Matt thought, that Cam had stolen directly from her mother.

His smile grew wider as Matt pulled out the second box from the bag. This box was much, smaller, and made of plain black paper.

Inside were a pair of simple cufflinks, shining, polished silver. With the flourish of a magician, Matt pulled the little pin down, and revealed the ultra-thin repelling cable hidden within.

"Each one of these hides 30 feet of cable that's rated to hold up to 250 pounds."

Cam took one of the cuff links, and repeatedly, pulled the little pin to reveal the cord hidden inside.

"What are you doing tonight?" Cam asked, and just as her father sighed, she quickly added, "You can explain it to me nonspecifically. I promise I remembered that you asked me to please stop asking you and mom and Aunt Abby and your friends for classified information."

Matt scoffed.

"I only had to ask you to stop because they kept telling you. And it's a pretty simple job tonight. Mommy and I have to go undercover at a party tonight to make sure an important person stays safe."

"That sounds boring."

"If everything goes well, it should be."

"When I grow up and join the CIA, will I have to do that too?"

"Oh, you will. Everyone has to go on protection duty at some point." Matt said, watching with no little amusement as Cammie's eyes and nose scrunched up in disgust. "Hey, your mother and I have warned you. Our job can get pretty boring."

"Yeah, but are you sure you're not exaggerating?"

Matt threw his head back and laughed.

"Yes, sweetie. I promise. You have to learn to take the excitement with the boredom." Behind them, there was a pause in the music, as the next track, a jazzy arrangement of "White Christmas" started to play. "Now come on. Dance with me while we wait for mommy to get ready."

As she slipped off of the stool, Cammie looked up at her father and said with a serious face, "Earlier mommy said that it took time to achieve perfection."

Matt rolled his eyes, and wrapped one arm around his daughter's shoulders and took her outstretched hand. Cam was _average_ sized for her age in every way, but as she delicately stood on the toes of Matt's shiny shoes in her stockinged feet, Matt realized she was getting a little too big to stand on his feet and dance in the kitchen, as they had done since she could stand. Maybe it was time to actually teach her how to dance—every spy needs to know how to waltz, after all.

"Your mommy always looks perfect, but do you want to know a secret?" Matt leaned down to look Cammie in the eye, and as he watched the conspiratorial little smirk grow across her face, he knew he had the same expression on his. "Your mom tends to overpack."

"Like on our trip to London?" Cam suggested.

"Exactly. She needs a long time to get ready because she thinks she needs to take twice as many knives as she actually needs, and needs to sew little pockets into her dress to hide them all."

"Excuse me, Matthew, but my _overpacking_ has saved you on several occasions."

Both Cammie and Matt's heads snapped to the foot of the stairs where Rachel was standing in a burgundy silk gown, her hair curled, her makeup perfected, holding a clutch in one hand and a pair of black heels in the other.

"Like on our trip to London?" Cam suggested again, raising her eyebrows as her father brought their dancing to a halt.

"Exactly." Rachel said, her stern glare melting into a smile. "How your father managed to get a sunburn in London, of all places, I'll never know, but he was glad I'd brought the prototype burn lotion I got from the lab, wasn't he?"

"Yes, I was." Matt sighed. "Speaking of which—"

"Yes, speaking of which." Rachel said. In three long strides she joined her husband and daughter in the kitchen, her skirt billowing around her legs. She set her bag on the counter and dropped her shoes to the floor, and her stern expression returned. "Have you packed to go to Grandma and Grandpa's?"

The pointed looks from both Rachel and Matthew indicated that they each knew exactly what the answer was.

Cam frowned, and her eyes flashed with guilt.

"No." She admitted.

"Don't you think you should go do that now? We have to leave for the airport at noon tomorrow, kiddo, and I'm sure you'll want to spend all of your time asking Sarah to tell you everything about Gallagher tonight."

With a dramatic sigh and droopy, defeated look at the floor, Cam nodded, and then slowly walked to the stairs and up to her bedroom.

Her parents watched her leave. As soon as they heard footsteps on the floor above them, Rachel wrapped an arm around Matt's waist and murmured "She's too much like her father."

"She's too much like her mother." Matt retorted, gently kissing his wife on the cheek.

"What about you, have you packed?" Rachel asked, despite knowing the answer already.

Matt sighed, and replied "I have been trained by the government in the art of quickly and efficiently packing a bag—"

"Mmhmm." Rachel nodded, and then pointed at the black box on the counter. "Is that my corsage?"

Taking the tangled arrangement of flowers from the little plastic box, Matt helped Rachel tie the band about her wrist.

As she examined the little wire that was hidden between the petals, Rachel looked up at the tuxedoed man beside her, and asked, "Why do women even wear corsages?"

"They don't teach you that kind of thing at Gallagher?"

Rachel shrugged.

"I don't think so. They did tell us how to hide poisonous flowers in our corsages."

"That's probably more important." Matt admitted, leaning further against the counter.

"Do you need help with your cufflinks?" Rachel asked, after a moment.

"Always." Matt answered with a warm smile.


	20. Rachel Part Four

**Hey everyone! I'm suuuuuuper sorry this chapter took so long. At first I was having computer issues again and needed reset my laptop to factory settings and nearly corrupted the file for this fic in the process, and then I had a death in the family, but then things took a turn for the better, because I also got a kitten (who doesn't have a name yet)!**

 **Anyway, as I suggested a few chapters ago, the remaining chapters of this fic are either complete or nearly complete, so I'll be able to resume posting on a much more regular schedule. Thank you for sticking with me!**

 **(And a happy Independence Day to all of my American readers, a happy belated Canada Day to my Canadian readers, and have a nice Tuesday to everyone else.)**

* * *

This shouldn't be so hard.

This absolutely should not be this hard.

I spent six years studying at an elite academy with a diverse and challenging curriculum. I spent three years at Yale. I've been a field operative for four years, and I've already built up a pretty respectable resume.

 _Picking wedding colors_ shouldn't be a challenge. But here we are.

Dad had called in some favors to get the downtown mansion as our venue on such short notice. The mansion was perfect—it had incredibly strict and discreet security measures that would keep the 50 or so intelligence operatives in the building from being sitting ducks during the party, without any of Matt's family's noticing anything suspicious—but it had been difficult to get on such short notice. All of my wedding research has said that six months was a short engagement, but it was as long as any of our co-workers had, and with dad's health taking a turn for the worse, it was as long as Matt and I were willing to go.

So we have the venue—the ceremony will take place in the grand foyer, and the reception will take place in the ballroom—and it's perfect. We've picked our wedding party—Abby and Christine for me, Joe and Matt's brother for him. And the Director—one of dad's old friends—has already agreed to officiate. I have my somethings old (my mother's veil), borrowed (the pearl necklace Abby had inherited from our grandmother), and blue (my shoes); I would be returning to the bridal store tomorrow to decide between one of two dresses to be my something new. But there was still plenty of work to do.

Like pick the wedding colors.

"See, the problem is that the foyer is—"

"Is painted burgundy, but the ballroom is painted navy blue." Abby finished, rolling her eyes.

"Which knocks out five options for the color schemes that I picked. So the remaining options are—"

"Cream and dark green, and cream and gold." Abby finished again.

She was sitting on the coffee table in Matt and Joe's English basement apartment, cross legged, fiddling with a set of fabric swatches. I, meanwhile, was on the couch, the old couch that sucked you in and didn't let you go easily. Joe and Matt, meanwhile, were outside, in their portion of the backyard, making dinner on the grill. It was a rare weekend where we were all in the country, and Matt and I had (begrudgingly) accepted that we would need to take advantage of our free time and our Maid of Honor and Best Man's presence to complete some wedding planning.

But I was stuck on the colors. I'd been thinking about them since dad told me his friends had come through and secured the mansion as our venue a few days before, and I'd been fixated on the same problems. The green would look nice in the blue room, but might look too _Christmassy_ in the burgundy room, and the gold might look a little too garish. But as I sat on the couch and stared at the sample of cream colored satin in my sister's hand, I had another thought.

"Wait—will a white wedding dress clash with all of the cream?"

Abby blinked, twice.

"Order a dress in off-white. Like, ivory, or something similar."

"But, I was going to get a pure white dress."

"Why?" Her face was incredulous. "Because you're a virgin? Or because Queen Victoria told you to?"

"Upper class women in Ancient Rome also wore white to their weddings." I added. I knew it wasn't _really_ relevant, but I'd always imagined wearing a bright white, simple wedding gown with mom's long Belgian lace veil. I just didn't feel like justifying a silly thought to my little sister.

"You sound like your fiancé. Sharing historical trivia." Abby rolled her eyes, and took a sip of the beer that I kept forgetting she was legally allowed to drink. _Was I really old enough to have a 21 year old sister_?

"Maybe we should wait to pick the colors until tomorrow. When I order my dress, I can ask for some samples of the fabric—"

" _No_. You said you would pick the colors today, so you're going to pick the colors today. Besides, the plan is to order the bridesmaids dresses tomorrow, and I'm not going to wait around the store for four hours while you decide what color dresses we're going to get. Pick them now."

Abby shoved the fabric swatches under my nose, and, with a glare that I knew was by no means up to my usual fury, I took them from her hand. _Maybe, if we use more cream than green, we could avoid looking too much like a Christmas party, but that would only make the clash between my white dress and the cream more obvious. But if we go with a gold and cream color scheme, and we only pick pale gold things, that might look really nice._

I sighed.

"Why don't you just talk to Matt?" Abby suggested, climbing from the coffee table to the spot on the couch next to me. "Since none of my wisdom seems to please you."

I tried and failed to stifle a second sigh.

Matt was more involved in the wedding planning process than my research suggested most grooms were, but I didn't think that the color scheme would matter to him. After all, he usually wore nothing but neutral colors—the most colorful thing he owned was an old green jersey from when he was his high school's star first baseman. But maybe he'd surprise me—he did that a lot.

"Okay." I replied, standing. "It's worth a shot."

The stairs to the backyard were at the end of the hallway, past the bathroom and both bedrooms. At the top of the stairs, the screen door was shut, but the heavy wooden door was wide open. I could hear Matt and Joe speaking in low tones—the grill was immediately next to the door, against the wall of the building.

I was halfway up the short staircase when I heard Joe say "It's getting harder to keep it unofficial, Matt. Don't take any undue risks. Not now."

Now, I don't know what normal people do when they hear words like _it's getting harder to keep it unofficial_ and _don't take any undue risks_ , but to spies (and spy legacies, who grew up listening to her father's meetings through the air vent that ran between her bedroom and his office), those words are a signal to stop and listen.

Did I feel a little guilty for trying to spy on my fiancé and friend, two men who also happen to be my colleagues as field operatives who work for the United States federal government? Maybe a little.

But then Matt answered Joe with a flippant "Well, as long as I get to decide which risks are _due_ and which are _undue_ ," and the two men went quiet.

So that was all I heard. Nothing dramatic, nothing scandalous.

I paused for a moment, on the stairs. I could see Joe's back, as he leaned against the wall between the door and the grill, and he was blocking Matt—it was unlikely that they had any way of knowing that I was there, and they weren't going to be on their guard in their own apartment in broad daylight on a weekend. Taking a deep breath, I counted to seven, and then climbed the three remaining stairs.

Pushing open the door, my face was totally neutral as I asked, "Hey, Matt? Can you develop an opinion on wedding colors?"

And as he and Joe turned to me with mildly interested looks on their faces, I took another deep breath to calm my breathing.

Later, after dinner, as the four of us sat at the tiny kitchen table and addressed wedding invitations (cream colored with gold envelopes—we'd bought green envelopes as well, but cream and gold had officially become our wedding colors), I had a chance to think about what I'd heard Joe and Matt talking about.

Nothing that they'd said was remarkable. After all, everyone took on unofficial missions—some were treasonous, but most were entirely reasonable. Some were done to prevent suspicion from double agents within the Agency, some were done for efficiency's sake, some were done with complete approval from the Deputy Director.

I'd done a few. Most of them for one of my sisters from Gallagher (one was for my biological sister, when she found herself in a tight spot in Bucharest), but I'd done a few to help out some old family friends as well.

I wasn't surprised by the fact that Matt and Joe were up to something unofficial. Joe was a classic workaholic, and Matt—well. I truly love Matt, and a part of me— _the same silly part of me that insisted I should wear a pure white wedding dress because that's what I imagined for myself when I was six and was the flower girl in one of mom's friends' wedding_ —knew that I would never fall out of love with Matt. But he has a bit of a martyr complex. He would never let anyone else work or suffer when he could work or suffer himself. The two men together were dangerous.

Unlike most employers, the Agency encourages intra-office dating. It's because our coworkers understand the lifestyle that accompanies the job—they know what questions they can ask and which they can't. They understand that there will be late nights and early mornings and long trips overseas and danger and risks and that most days you will come home having spent entire at the office doing things that you can't talk about over dinner.

So I understood why they hadn't shared what they were up to with me. My feelings weren't hurt. God knows that neither Abby nor I had told them about Bucharest, or the times I'd gone to help a friend in Asuncion or Asmara. Keeping unofficial things unofficial was just part of being professional. And Cameron's were professional above all else.

But later that night, as I laid in bed, trying and failing to fall asleep, I couldn't figure out what I _actually was_ feeling.

Hours after climbing into bed, I settled on anxiety.

Matt had been injured on a job in Acapulco only weeks ago. But he'd been fine, thanks to a mix of luck and the fact that his handler was running comms and was able to get Matt's backup there to help him as soon as possible. But that support system doesn't exist for unofficial missions.

I managed to fall asleep by comforting myself in the most professional way possible—with statistics.

How much time could Matt possibly spend on whatever unofficial mission he was on? Most that I'd been on had been one-of trips. And Matt had been injured once—hadn't he already vowed to learn his lesson and be more careful in the future? So he was more likely to be injured on an official mission than an unofficial mission, and Matt was a natural. He was a pavement artist. He was calm and rational and skilled.

He could still get hurt, but that was I risk I would have to take. Wasn't he taking the same risk by marrying me?


	21. Matt Part Ten

Matthew Morgan had been trained to clearly and objectively assess how dangerous any given situation may be. Sky diving? A romantic walk on the beach? Rush hour traffic on the DC beltway? Breaking into a highly secured enemy compound?

Those are situations he could understand.

And while he wouldn't exactly claim to be an expert parent, he did have nine years of experience with it. And he'd known Rachel Vivian Cameron for nearly thirteen years, so he thought that he knew her pretty well.

Even with his expertise, Matthew had no idea what to expect.

He was sitting at the kitchen island, reading some reports Joe had asked him to look over. On the stool next to him was Cammie, dressed in her pajamas, reading a book on poisons that Abby had given her. They both had half empty mugs of hot chocolate on the island before them.

When they heard the electronic deadbolt open, they both looked up from their reading just in time to see Rachel walk through the door, and groan.

"What's wrong?"

Sitting at the island to do anything other than eat a meal had, in the Morgan household, become a clear signal that something was wrong. It probably started when Matt and Rachel had sat there, with toddler Cammie in their arms, as they waited for Abby to arrive so that they could tell her that Phineas Cameron had, after a year-long illness, finally passed away. Then it was where Rachel had been sitting when Cam had gotten in trouble for using the advanced self-defense maneuvers Matt had taught her on a boy in her kindergarten class. It was where Matt and Rachel had both been sitting when they were waiting for Cam to come home from Abby's apartment after missing her kindergarten graduation.

As Rachel shed her winter coat and hat and gloves, Matt gave Cam an impatient look. She opened her mouth, cast her eyes between her parents, and said "It's nothing that bad."

"Cam." Matt scolded immediately.

Rachel moved to the opposite side of the island, and leaned against the counter top. She looked completely exhausted, but ready for whatever news her husband and daughter had to report.

"Rachel, darling," Matt took a deep breath. "As you remember, we have recently decided that Cam is allowed to stay at home alone for a few hours at a time now that she is almost ten, right?"

Rachel sighed, nodded, and looked exasperatedly at her daughter, waiting for the bad news to hit.

"Well, I went to the Pentagon City Mall today to finish my Christmas shopping, and Cameron and I agreed that she would _stay at home_."

"And she didn't?" Rachel finished. Cammie had the grace to look a little ashamed of herself.

"No, she didn't. Cammie, would you like to tell your mother what you did?"

Quietly, Cammie said, "I tailed dad around the mall."

"You what?"

"I tailed dad around the mall."

Rachel stood up straighter, and fought to hide her surprise.

"… How?"

"I waited for five minutes after dad left, then I snuck out and took the bus. I knew dad would get there faster, but he'd told me what store he was going to buy Grandma Morgan's present from, so I waited for him there. And then I tailed him."

Rachel needed a moment to let the story settle in.

"Why?"

"I wanted to see what he was getting me for Christmas."

Beside Cammie, Matthew looked equally as bemused as he was irritated, and Rachel was starting to understand why.

"It worked."

"What?"

"It worked. I tailed dad for an hour and a half before he caught me, and I found out he bought me a new coat—" Cammie insisted, her cheeks flushing.

"You tailed your father for an hour and a half?"

She nodded, and Rachel turned to her husband. They shared a look—Rachel amused, and Matthew totally unamused—before Matt spoke up.

"And would you like to tell your mother why I caught you?"

"I—I sat down to eat a pretzel that I bought."

"And did that pretzel spoil your appetite for dinner?"

"Well, I think it was the pretzel _and_ the lemonade that spoiled my appetite, dad."

Rachel hummed and nodded solemnly. Then she turned her attention back to Matt.

"And you, Matt? What did you do wrong?"

" _I_ assumed that my daughter would follow the rules we set for her."

"And that's the only thing you did wrong?"

"Yes. I was bread crumbing, I was flipping, I was clearing my corners. I was using all of my best counter-surveillance moves, but she was still there, in the Pentagon City Mall, following me, for nearly two hours."

Rachel nodded again, and then turned her head back towards Cammie.

"Cam, sweetie. The reason your dad is upset is _one_ , because we trusted you to stay at home and not cause any trouble, and _two_ , the Pentagon City Mall is kind of a hotbed for operatives like ourselves. There are a lot of our co-workers there at any given moment—you cannot know why right now—but there are also plenty of foreign operatives, and they might be dangerous. Do you understand?"

Cammie cast her eyes towards the floor, but she nodded.

"I'm glad." Rachel said, reaching across the island to brush Cam's hair out of her face. "Now," She said, her tone suddenly much more chipper. "Your Aunt Abby hasn't left for her next mission yet. Go call her and tell her what you did—she'll think it's hilarious."

Cam immediately giggled and slid from the stool, and ran to get the phone from the office. Matt, meanwhile, groaned just as Rachel started to laugh.

" _I'm going to tell everyone at work_." She hissed.

"Rachel—"

"Dave, Christine, Jennifer, Linda—Joe. Oh, I need to tell Joe. Joe is going to _die_ from laughing."

"Rachel—"

"He _just_ asked you to lecture on surveillance and counter-surveillance at Blackthorne, and you failed to see that your own nine-year-old daughter was tailing you through a mall."

"It was very crowded, and she's still a little short for her age—"

But Rachel just kept laughing, and shaking her head at her husband.

"Rachel? Rachel—fine. Fine. This is funny. This is _very funny._ The Agency might fire me on principle, and we'll be a one-income household in a city with a high cost of living, but this is all very amusing—"

Stumbling around the kitchen island with half-open eyes, Rachel wrapped her arms around her husband's neck in a weak hug as she continued to laugh.


	22. Rachel Part Three

In my (still relatively limited) career in the field, I'd been to nearly three dozen countries. In my entire life, I'd been in twenty different states.

Today was my first time in Nebraska.

"You shouldn't be nervous." Matt said, taking my suitcase from my hands as we wound our way through the airport. "Now, I know you can carry this yourself, but I'll never hear the end of from my parents if I don't take it. Do you want to stop for more coffee or something before we meet my parents?"

"No, I'm fine."

I'd already talked through every anxiety I'd felt with Abby, but I'd never met a man's parents before, and I had limited experience with _normal people_. I didn't need more caffeine on an empty stomach with the way I felt.

The airport in Omaha wasn't large, but it wasn't as small as some that I'd been to. It didn't take us long to find the entrance nearest the parking lot, and if Matt's sudden smile hadn't been enough of a clue, I was able to immediately spot his parents in the crowd. His dad, Jim, stood tall, with his hands at his hips. His salt and pepper hair was neatly combed, and as he spotted his son moving towards him, he smiled, and I could see who Matt inherited his smile from.

Beside Jim was Matt's mother, Annemarie. She was taller in person than I expected, and she looked so much like her son. She was standing with her hands clasped together, looking in the opposite direction as we approached. When her husband nudged her on the shoulder and pointed at Matt, she broke into a wide, blushing smile.

"Matthew, honey!" She held her arms out wide and took two steps forward to meet her son, wrapping him tight in a hug. I lagged behind by a few steps, but once Annemarie was done embracing her son, she held her arms out wide again and looked at me, and if possible her smile grew even wider. "Oh, Rachel! I'm so happy to finally meet you in person!" Her Oklahoma accent was even stronger than the handful of times when we'd spoken over the phone. She hugged me, briefly, before pulling back and saying "Oh, let me see the ring first."

I obligingly held out my left hand, a gesture I'd gotten used to fairly quickly. She twisted my hand around and examined the sparkling diamonds in the florescent airport lighting, and then dropped my hand to look at Matt.

"Doesn't that government job pay you better?"

"No, mom. We've been over this."

"Oh, I'm just kidding you, sweetie. It's beautiful. And you, Rachel, are beautiful!" She suddenly hugged me again, her arms around my neck. Matt had warned me, but he was right—Annemarie Morgan was a lot to handle.

She let go of me long enough for Jim to extent a warm, calloused hand, which I shook, before strolling out of the airport arm in arm with Annemarie, trailing behind Matt and Jim (who, I noticed, walked with the same lazy gait).

I was warned by Matt, and again by his parents, that the drive to the ranch would be a little over three hours long, but that we'd be stopping for dinner between here and there to give ourselves a break. After fitting our luggage in the trunk of Annemarie's car, Matt's mother insisted that she sit in the back with me, so that we could get a chance to talk.

She talked a lot, but not in a way that overbearing, or obnoxious. She was funny and smart, and asked plenty of questions about me and Matt and our relationship and what we'd accomplished in terms of wedding planning (next to nothing). And then Annemarie gave me a complete rundown on the small town where they lived, the extended Morgan family, and the ranch.

Annemarie reminded me of why spies do what they do—I learned more about the small town that Annemarie loved in one car ride than I had learned about the same town from Matt in over a year.

We stopped for dinner at a little Italian restaurant that Matt explained that they ate at every time his parents picked him up from the airport. The food was wonderful, and sitting down at the little table gave me a chance to see how Matt interacted with his parents.

He accepted his mother's teasing without complaint and gave as good as he got; he and his father could finish each other's sentences. He asked how his old high school baseball and track teams were doing, how his brother and niece and nephew were doing. He'd inherited a lot of his father's mannerisms, from the way that they folded their hands on the table before the food arrived, to the way they laughed. It was nice, and part of me was sorry that Matt would never get to experience that with my family. After all, he had technically known Abby longer than he had known me; my mother has been dead for over half of my lifetime; and my father, despite knowing and liking and approving of Matt, was too much of a politician to ever relax and have a normal dinner like a normal father would have with his daughters.

It was late evening by the time we arrived at the ranch, which was much bigger than I was expected. I was also surprised to see that their house _wasn't actually a ranch style house_ —and a silly little part of me wondered why they called ranch style houses that if you couldn't expect to find on an actual working ranch. Jim and Annemarie explained as we drove up the long driveway that they had over 100 acres of land. Raising beef cattle was the heart of the ranch's business, but they had several fields to grow hay, a few horses, a dozen hens, and a small orchard of fruit trees.

After moving my bag into the guestroom, Matt and Jim took me on a tour, where I saw the fields and barns for myself, and I was also introduced to some of the calves and some of the older horses. By the time that we arrived at the gate leading to the orchard, the sun was beginning to set, and the tour soon finished.

The following morning, Matt knocked at my door just as I was pulling on my shoes.

"Breakfast is nearly ready. Dad's got some work to do in one of the barns today, and mom will be at the library. Andrew and his wife and kids will be over for dinner, so I was thinking that today I might give you the tour of the town—it's nothing special, but there's a great place we can go for lunch."

"Sounds great." I replied, following him from the room and down the stairs.

Breakfast was wonderful—french toast and berries and coffee. As soon as we were done eating, Jim excused himself to go to the fields, but not until he handed the keys to his truck to Matt, and Annemarie left for the town library. Not long after, Matt and I followed them out of the front door, strolling arm in arm past the blooming shrubs and early summer flowers, along the gravel driveway. Matt was swinging the keys around his fingers by the ring of a Georgetown keychain, and I remembered the way that he had gingerly walked down the stairs that morning.

"Do you want me to drive?" I offered quietly. He'd only been off of his crutches for a week.

He shook his head.

"No, it's okay. It's just that no matter what I do, my knee's always stiff in the mornings."

"Alright." I said. He wasn't lying. "So where are you taking me?" I asked, as we reached the cherry red truck.

"I thought we could walk through the town—there's not much to see, but the weather will be nice. Then, after lunch, I thought we could grab some ice cream and then go to the park, where I can tell you all the most embarrassing stories of my mischievous adolescence."

Matt was right about the town—it was small, but it was quaint, and the weather was nice. It was nice, being away from the traffic and stress of DC, and to be able to explore somewhere new with Matt for any reason other than a mission. It was even nice just to see how normal people spent their summer mornings running errands and taking their kids to the community pool. I was glad that, if Matt and I had kids, they would be able to see a dramatically different way of life by visiting their grandparents.

Just before lunch, we stopped by the town library. It was small, one block north of the courthouse and one block east of the jail, but there was a circle of kids gathered around an elderly woman in a room off to the side of the entrance, listening to the story, and a handful of teenagers and adults of all ages wandering the stacks.

Matt waved hello to the red-haired woman standing behind the counter who was checking out a stack of books for a round-faced little girl and led me into an office behind the counter. It was small, but bright. Potted plants covered every inch of the windowsill, and on the west wall was a picture of Annemarie, Jim, and Matt, standing together in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Annemarie herself walked in a few seconds behind us, her hands on her hips, clearly agitated.

"Matt, darling. I hate to ask this of you—I know this is technically your vacation—but—"

"What is it, mom?" Matt asked. He rolled his eyes, but he smiled.

"Two shelves just broke of one of the bookshelves in the reference room. Could you take a look at it? You'll be faster than waiting for old Harold Chesham to come look at it, and even if we have to buy something to get it fixed, we'll be able to buy that before Harold even bothers to return my call."

"It's alright, mom. I'll just go give it a look." He shook his head with a fond smile, and glanced over at me. He opened his mouth slightly, but before he could say anything, Annemarie interrupted.

"Oh, no, Rachel, darling. You just stay here, leave Matt to his boring chores. I have coffee and water, or I could make you some tea if you'd rather."

"Coffee sounds wonderful." I said, giving Matt a brief smile before he slipped out of the room, quiet as ever.

"You just sit down, I'll be right back." Annemarie said, waving her hand to a worn, standard issue chair with a crocheted doily hanging over the back. I settled in and waited—I was expecting a conversation like this at some point. But did Annemarie sabotage her own bookshelves for the chance to have a private conversation? Or was that just an accident? Would it be horrible of me to accuse a civilian woman of sabotage? Then again, she's Matt's mother—

"You just take a splash of cream in your coffee, right? That's what you fixed for yourself at breakfast this morning."

"Yes, that's perfect."

Madame Dabney always said that the skills of a hostess and the skills of a spy overlap more than most people would think.

"I wanted to take this moment," Annemarie said, settling into her chair, and placing my coffee at the other side of the desk. "And thank you for taking care of Matt after his accident. That was always one of those things that worried me when Matt moved out east. Who was going to take care of my son when he was sick or hurt if I wasn't there to do it? Oh, Matt has always made friends easily—I've never met Joe, you know, but I know he's a good friend to Matt. But I'm really glad he had you."

"I was glad to be there for him." I answered, trying to force a kind, innocent smile on my face.

"Now, Rachel." She leaned forward, and folded her hands on her desk. I felt like I was back at Gallagher, being punished by Headmistress Wallace (which really only happened once or twice, for the record). "I know who my son works for, and he told me that you met at work. As far as I know, my son works as an analyst who spends his days typing up reports about God-knows-what, and as far as I know, my son's knee was broken in a bicycle accident. Now, I will not ask you to tell me anything more than that, because that's not really what I wanted to talk about.

"It doesn't matter what the two of you do for a living. Things can happen no matter what you do for a living. Jim's been cut and crushed and once, he was bit by a rattler—hell, even I've gotten worse than papercuts on this job. Things like what happened to Matthew, you can't always stop them from happening. I've always believed that no one can be lucky or careful forever, that everyone has a certain quota of little disasters that you can't avoid.

"I just want you to know that I really appreciate the fact you were there for Matt after his. I know he's not a good patient, and he probably didn't make it easy for you to take care of him. But you're a good girl, Rachel. A good woman. I know we haven't had too much of a chance to get to know each other, but the moment Matthew asked you to marry him, you became family. And Morgans are a tough crowd to shake off, if you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean." I replied, fighting the growing knot in my throat. "And thank you. It means a lot to me that you said that."

Annemarie nodded twice, and took a sip of her coffee. I followed suit, using my coffee cup to cover my mouth and hide the fact that I was taking a deep, shuddering breath to calm myself.

"Now," She said, putting down her cup with a glimmer in her eye. "Before my son comes back, tell me more about what kind of wedding dress you're looking for."

"Well, I want to wear my mother's veil, so it has to match that…"

By the time that Matt and I were sitting on our return flight to DC, I decided that my first trip to Nebraska had gone pretty successfully.


	23. Matt Part Eleven

**Hey everyone! As you'll probably figure out from what happens in this chapter, we're getting near the end. I just wanted to take this opportunity to again thank you for reading and reviewing. I know Matt/Rachel isn't as popular as Zammie is in this fandom, and Gallagher Girls is kind of an old fandom anyway, so I wasn't sure if anyone would read this at all, but I'm super thankful that you guys have done so!**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter** — **it's more of a Matt and Cammie story than a Matt and Rachel story, but I couldn't** ** _not_** **include it.**

"Too old for the circus." Matt scoffed as he parked his totally unremarkable sedan in the gravel parking lot.

"Dad—"

"I beg of you, where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong in raising you that you believe that you can be _too old_ for the circus? What's next—are you going to be too old for the zoo? Too old to eat ice cream for breakfast when your mom's out of town?"

"Dad—"

"Was it my fault? Or was it you mother? Your Aunt Abby? The kids at school? Did the kids at school convince you that you're too old for the circus? Because your mother and I have talked to you about peer pressure, and besides, none of those kids are your peers—you are _peerless_ , sweetheart."

Matt stopped, surprised that Cammie hadn't already interrupted him. But as he pulled the key out of the ignition, he turned to see his daughter staring at him, eyebrows raised and smirking.

"Alright, I'll stop now." Matt laughed once, and pulled the two tickets from behind the sun visor. "Now, did you remember to leave your backpack in the back seat yesterday?"

"Yes, dad."

"Did your mother see you do that?"

"No."

"And it's completely empty?"

"Yes, _dad_. I can follow a mission briefing."

"I know you can, but as your superior officer—" Cammie scoffed and rolled her eyes. "I need to check. Now, come on, lemme see it."

Cam twisted around in her seat, pulled an empty purple backpack from under her seat, and showed it to her father. Matt looked into the two main pockets, and sighed.

"For some reason, I thought it was bigger than this. Oh well. I think, if they're selling the big bags, we can only get one bag each of the kettle corn and the cotton candy."

"That's not going to last us very long."

"No…" He sighed, but shrugged his shoulders, resigned. "Well, you better start thinking about what color of cotton candy you want. You're gonna have to be selective if our strategic cotton candy reserves are going to be smaller than expected."

"Blue." Cammie answered immediately.

"Excellent decision. Now, one last directive, Operative Morgan." Matt took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes. "This is a chaotic place, so could you _please_ , pretty please with cotton candy and corn dogs and kettle corn on top, please do not deliberately hide from me today."

She blinked, once. Matt could tell, as both a father and as an operative, that she was genuinely surprised by his entreaties.

"Okay." She answered, cleaning the lenses of her sunglasses so she could avoid looking at him when he was so serious. "I won't."

"Excellent. Now, let's go, my little chameleon. We've got twenty minutes until the tightrope walkers start their routine, and I think we both want a good seat for that."

Of all the things that they saw that day, the tightrope walkers were their favorite. Sure, the animals were cool, the contortionists incredible, but they both loved watching the tightrope walkers.

On the drive home to Arlington, they stopped at a small diner somewhere in central Virginia to eat a meal that was slightly more nutritious than the corn dogs and cotton candy they'd been eating all afternoon. They were tired and a little sunburnt, but they were happy.

After the waitress took their order, Matt smiled sadly at his daughter, who was quietly humming one of the old organ songs that had been playing in the background at the circus. There was a faint smile on her face, tugging at her lips and setting her eyes alight, but Matt knew that in her head, she was practicing every surveillance trick she'd ever learned from him, her mother, her aunt—there in the little greasy spoon of a diner right of the highway.

Since the moment she was born on a snowy January morning, he had known that his daughter would grow up to become a wonderful spy, but at every time Cam proved to Matt that very fact, his heart swelled. Rachel sometimes worried that Cam would feel crushed by the expectations that people would have for her, since Rachel herself had to deal with the expectations of being a legacy. But Matt knew that Cam would blow the nameless, faceless peoples expectations for the Cameron and Morgan family names out of the water.

From his pocket, he slid out a crumpled brown napkin with seven names written in blue ink. Matt had memorized the names the moment he had seen the napkin on the dusty ground at the circus, hours before.

"Cam, sweetheart." He murmured. Her head snapped back towards him. There was a questioning glimmer in her eye— _she might have gotten his blue eyes but that expression was all Rachel_ —but she didn't say anything. He pushed the napkin across the table. She looked at it, without touching. "You cannot ask why, but you need to memorize these seven names."

He hated asking this of her. He hated asking her to do anything that she could not question. He hated that he would, potentially, be putting Cam in danger if this all goes wrong and he's not around to see the end of the Circle of Cavan. But only two years ago, when he and Rachel had been talking about sending Cam to Gallagher— _it's so hard to believe she'll be leaving in only a few months, that she's old enough to ride a bike without a helmet and old enough to begin training as a spy and she's already driven the truck around the ranch but in only four year's time she'll be old enough to drive a car on the road and in six year's time she'll be eighteen_ —Matt had reminded Rachel that they should not underestimate their daughter. She is the best of both of them.

Matt has no plan to die any time soon, but when he's gone, Cam will have Rachel, and Rachel will have Cam. They will have Abby and Joe and a whole army of Gallagher Girls.

Cam will be fine.

She nods, just once, and narrows her eyes, the way Rachel does when she's deliberately memorizing something. Then she looks up, smiles weakly, and asks, "Okay?"

"Okay." He answers. "Thanks, kiddo."

They complete their mission nearly four hours later. They walk through the front door of their townhouse in Arlington and found it, as they expected, empty. Rachel wasn't supposed to return from Malaysia for two more days, but just to be careful, they stashed the cotton candy in Cam's old backpack in their agreed upon hiding place immediately.

Just in case.


	24. Rachel Part Two

**Maaaaaan I am so sorry that this took forever. I graduated from college this past spring, and in the interim, I've spent so much time trying to find a real, grown adult job (hahahaha ugggggh. I wish that were a joke) and it wasn't going super well. Add to that every kind of problem, including computer issues, issues with my account, my not-a-real-job-job getting in the way, and the fact that I've been working on countless WIPs for totally different fandoms (mostly Fallout 4 and a few Dishonored fics, so if the two whole people whose interest overlaps with Gallagher Girls and Fallout, check out my page, I guess?) I just didn't have it in me to finish this. But do you want to know the kicker? I literally just had to write 2/3 of this chapter, because the final two chapters were the very first chapters that I wrote for this fic, almost a year ago :/ :/ :/ Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.**

 **I am really sorry. But hey! Once I post the next two chapters (I'll probably post them together, in a couple of days from now) this fic will be 100% complete!**

* * *

Matt and I had been seeing each other for about four months when he let it slip that his birthday was approaching.

"It's Saturday. November 19supth/sup." He said, almost sheepishly.

We had stopped by a bar that was halfway between our separate apartments after work. We'd gone to catch up with each other, as our missions had taken us both abroad for nearly three weeks. This had inspired a discussion about how our job makes normal, everyday things very difficult—like making and keeping your appointment at the dentist, and finding the time to go grocery shopping. This led Matt to mention that I needed to renew his employee ID card soon. Renewing your ID card meant a whole slew of polygraph tests to check your loyalties and physicals to check your health, and it was something that every agent was required to do every year, within the week after their birthday. I, of course, demanded to know when his birthday was.

"We should do something."

"No, no, it's okay." He cast his eyes away, and shook his head. "I don't need a fuss."

We hadn't told our friends and family that we were seeing each other just yet, and we were both more than happy not to be the subject of the Langley gossip mill just yet. Neither of us enjoyed that sort of attention. That was why I couldn't be at all upset with Matt when, after I asked why he hadn't mentioned his birthday sooner, he replied.

"I'm not really comfortable with all of the attention of a birthday party. I got a lot of it as a kid, since I'm the baby of the family, but I'm a born pavement artist. I don't like it."

"I'd still like to do something with you." I said, stirring the little straw in my drink. "It's our first special event since we started seeing each other. It doesn't have to be an ordeal, but I want to do something nice." I reached over and placed my hand on top of Matt's, as he was spinning his half empty beer bottle around the by the neck. He stilled, and quietly sighed.

"Well then Joe is going to be—actually, I don't know where he's supposed to be. But he's supposed to be leaving for an op on Saturday morning. Why don't you come over to my place, I'll cook, and we can just have a quiet night in."

"Are you sure? Because I could—"

"Rachel—"

"I was going to suggest that I order takeout."

He shook his head, and smiled.

"No, that's fine. I'll cook."

"Then I'll take care of the cake. I promise, I won't try to bake it myself. I'll find something for that horrible sweet tooth of yours."

"Please no candles?"

"No candles."

"That sounds perfect, Rach."

The morning of Matt's birthday, I was just out of the shower when the phone in the apartment that I shared with Abby rang.

"Hello?"

"Rach. It's Matt."

"Hey. What is it?"

"I'm at work—I had to turn a report in, and I just heard. Joe's op has been canceled—something about a compromised asset."

"Oh… Does Joe want to do something for your birthday, then?"

"No, no. We went out for drinks last night, since he thought he wasn't going to be here today. But, well, he'll be hanging around. I could always kick him out, or we could—"

"No, no." I echoed his protests. "I'll have an easier time getting Abby out of the apartment than you will Joe. I'll figure something out."

He took a deep breath, the phone crackling in my ear.

"Alright. Same time, then?"

"Same time. If there's a problem getting Abby out of the house, I'll call you."

"Alright."

We said goodbye, lingering on the phone for just a few more seconds than really necessary. After hanging up, I leaned, headfirst, against the wall.

Abby was out for a jog, and as kids, we made a pact never to install listening devices with to listen in on each other (neither of us had broken that pact yet, so I was hopeful Abby would never know about this conversation. Or, god willing, the next one.

Linda was on a mission to Greenland, and Grace had just left to return to MI6's headquarters after weeks of being stationed in DC. Matt, of course, would be busy with me, and if I asked Joe to get Abby out of the way for a night, he would call Abby and ask her to dinner or to a museum or something, and then halfway through their fun platonic outing, he would compromise the mission and tell her that he was just doing a favor for me. What Abby's friends from Gallagher were up to, I had no idea, and I would never, not in a million years, ask dad to get Abby out of our apartment for the night—no matter what I told him, he would be too suspicious and he'd call in all sorts of favors to have a dozen of Langley's best stationed around our apartment to figure out what I was up to.

Which left one feasible person.

Christine had just gotten back from a mission yesterday, when I was getting ready to leave Langley for the weekend. She'd sighed and huffed and poured herself a cup of coffee before her standard debrief, because she knew she would have to come into the office today, on a Saturday, to finish up the paperwork.

I picked up the phone again, called a pizza place and asked for a DC special pizza, extra large, and was put on hold—I then entered my twelve digit passcode, was reconected with an operator, and kindly asked to be connected with Christine.

"Rachel?"

"I need you to do me a favor—a very important, and personal, favor—and get Abby out of our apartment tonight, from six to at ten or eleven. Can you call our apartment in half an hour and ask Abby to go on a girl's night with you? I will tell you why—" I nearly stuttered. "Next week."

Now, don't get me wrong. I love Christine—her father was friends with mine and Abby's, and the three of us had spent a lot DC garden parties together, years before any of us went to Gallagher. But, really, the girl was a gossip, and always had been. So this was a risk—Matt and I had been talking about the fact that it was time to start telling people we'd been seeing each other, but this gave us a deadline. Christine would tell everyone, and within hours, all of Langley would know Matt and I had been dating for weeks.

But that was exactly why I was bargaining with Christine. She was a gossip, but that didn't mean she couldn't handle some delayed gratification. If Rachel could give her some brand-new gossip, she'd agree.

"Okay." Christine said, with only a heartbeat's hesitation. "You said to call in half an hour?"

Christine called as soon as Abby was finished with her post-jog shower. I was the one who picked up the phone, and I made inane small talk with Christine as I waited for Abby to towel off and take it off of my hands.

At ten till six, Abby was zipping up her boots and pulling on a jacket, and was out the door not a minute later. There were still nine minutes until Matt was set to arrive when I pulled the bottle of wine I'd bought after work the day before out from under my bed.

And so there we were, later, hours later than when he'd called. We were sitting on the couch that Abby and I had spent an hour and a half arguing about in the store, trying to decide if the color coordinated with the carpet. Matt had made salmon and roast potatoes and asparagus— _nothing fancy_ , he insisted, as if he wasn't talking to someone who has set two microwaves on fire in her life—and together, we ate and drank wine and recounted stories of past birthdays. I told him how I was always unlucky enough to get sick on my birthdays, and that I'd opened plenty of presents while tucked up in bed. He told me about the parties that had half of the town cramming into the Morgan family ranch home, filled to bursting with people that were more his parents' friends than his own.

It was really nice. Of course, all of the time that we'd spent together, alone, was nice. It was really effortless, spending time with him. I never felt like I needed try and impress Matt, and he never tried to impress me. We didn't need to impress each other, not in our line of work. We could relax, and that was so much more important to me. But it was different, to spend time with him in my apartment. We'd spent more time in nondescript, crowded bars and on missions scattered all across the globe than we had spent time together somewhere quiet. If we did have the chance to meet somewhere quiet and private, it was usually his apartment, because Joe was gone more often than not. But being here, in my home, rather than a tiny bachelor pad basement apartment, talking and sharing wine and stories—it was nothing short of the perfect way to spend a night.

And then things went from perfect and quiet to not.

The second I could hear someone—Abby, it had to be Abby, if it wan't some ex-KGB hit man coming to kill me—putting a key into the door to unlock the first of four locks, I turned to Matt and whispered "Hide." He stood up and, silently, bolted across the tiny living room, down the slight extension of the living room that supposedly counted as a hallway, and into my bedroom. I, meanwhile, took our dirty plates from the coffee table in one hand, and the wine glasses and bottle in the other. I was in the kitchen by the time the mysterious-person (hopefully Abby, but dad had the spare keys to our apartment, and Langley had copies as well) had unlocked three out of four locks. On an impulse, I threw everything—plates, glasses, forks and all—into the garbage can beneath the sink. I'd fish it out later, if I had a chance.

The front door pushed open as soon as I walked through the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Abby walked through, her eyes cast down, her face sour.

"Hey—"

Abby looked up at me, her sour glare softening somewhat as she smiled, but her smile wasn't real—it was self deprecating. It was then, that I noticed what had gone wrong.

The front of Abby's white shirt was stained, a giant reddish orange splotch that stretched across her stomach.

"Oh." I said, trying not to look at all surprised as Christine followed in behind Abby, shutting the door behind her.

"So our waiter decided I needed to wear the tomato bisque, rather than eat it." Abby explained, rolling her eyes as she shrugged off her coat and dropped her handbag to the ground. "Not that I'm angry at him, you know, but it wasn't even my tomato bisque—we'd already finished our dinner. The soup was for this nasty lady at the table behind us who complained about everything—the service, the free bread, the music. Anyway, I'm going to chance my shirt, and then we're going to catch that new movie, you know the one." She walked over to the hallway, towards her own bedroom, and out of sight. "The one with that cute British actor, what's his name."

Once Abby was out of sight, I turned to look at Christine.

 _I'm so sorry._ She mouthed, her face totally panicked. _I tried to call, but there wasn't a phone._

I shook my head, trying to be reassuring. If she and Abby leave as soon as she changes her shirt, everything would be fine. I can wash the pans and dishes from dinner—tell, I could do that after pulling them from the _garbage can_ , and then—

"Hey Rachel?" Abby called. "Did you know that there's a fully trained government operative hiding under your bed?"

There was beat, as Christine's face snapped to mine.

I took a deep breath, and then Abby's face appeared, leaning out from the hallway.

I took another deep breath, and then Matt appeared over Abby's shoulder, looking totally casual.

I took another deep breath, as both Christine and Abby looked at me, their eyebrows raised and eyes wide.

And then I swore—I'm not sure what language it was, but I certainly said a swear word.

"What were you doing under my sister's bed, Matt?" Abby asked, never looking away from me.

"Oh, you know. Hiding."

"You spend a lot of time hiding under my sister's bed?"

Matt hummed, and thought about it for a moment.

"You know, I can't say that I do. However, if you don't mind, I'm just going to go back, and, uh, hide some more. Because, no offence, but I don't really feel like sharing my birthday cake with either of you two." And then Matt turned on his heel and left.

Leaving my two of my sisters staring at me, there, in our living room, with increasingly narrowed eyes and threatening smiles.

I swore again.


	25. Matt Part Twelve

**I just wanted to say, before this gets super heavy, thank you for reading this fic! If you've been here since the beginning (or, at least, before my unforgivable absence) thank you for sticking around! If you're new to this fic, thank you for giving it a chance! I loved and appreciated every review and view on this fic, and your feedback means a lot to me.**

 **Anyway, let the tears begin!**

* * *

He woke up alone.

He was in a tiny bed, in a stone walled room. As he came too, he guessed that it was probably a basement.

Matt took a deep breath, and took stock of his own body.

He had been drugged, obviously. The last thing he remembered was his frantic search for an entrance to the Athenian catacombs. He'd been tailed since arriving in the city, and he'd spent hours and hours and hours trying to lose his tail, but as every hour passed, he just kept gaining new tails. He was getting desperate.

Of course, entrances to the catacombs are usually in dark, shady, out of the way places, which also happen to be the best places to kidnap someone.

So this was, Matthew realized, his fault.

It was all his fault.

Groaning, he sat up, and assessed the situation, as he had been trained to do.

There was a lump on the side of his head, the whole left side of his body was bruised. His knuckles were raw and bloody. His clothes were torn and dirty, and he was barefoot. The floor was ice cold as he stood to look out of the tiny window. It was entirely blocked off with fluffy white snow, which allowed only a little light through.

Unless he'd been out a lot longer than he thought he had been, Matthew was somewhere in the Alps. It had been a cold spring in Europe, but he still must have been at a pretty high elevation for there to be snow in late April.

If he was going to escape, he would need supplies. He was in rough shape, but he could make it. As long as he doesn't die of hypothermia first, he could make it. Morgans were stubborn and resilient, after all. He could make it.

This isn't the first time he's been in enemy hands. He's never been in the Circle's hands, but they're not infallible. He's spent years proving that they're not infallible. The Circle can be defeated, and he can escape from them.

He can escape from them and make it back to safety.

So he thinks.

He has three hours and twenty-two minutes _to think_ before the door opens.

Three people enter. The first is Catherine Goode. She smiles in a way that Matthew thinks is supposed to be warm and friendly. _God, he really hates her_.

The second is Dr. Steven Sanders, who Matt met the first time he gave a lecture at Blackthrone. He was always a little irritated by the blustery little man, and the idea that he was in the Circle was horrifying. A wolf in a bumbling, clumsy sheep's clothing.

The last was Max Edwards. They'd gone on a few missions together, in the past, before Edwards joined Interpol. Matt had never really trusted him, and was at least a little pleased to see that his instincts were right.

Dr. Steve does most of the talking that time. He wants to know who's in the Inner Circle. He wants to know the name of the asset who gave Matt the list of the members of the Inner Circle. He wants to know who had given Matt inside information on the Circle.

Matt doesn't tell them anything even as they beat him and break his bones. He has to protect Joe.

They give him some water and a chunk of stale bread before leaving him alone for thirty-six hours. Matt does not sleep.

He'd left the necklace in the bank. He'd separated the lock and the key.

He'd written a letter to Rachel and Cam. His journal was hidden in Joe's cabin. Together, they would have all of the information they'd need. They could piece the clues together, when it was time, and together, they would see the Circle fall once and for all.

Catherine, Dr. Steve, and Edwards return.

That time, Catherine does most of the talking. She demands to know who's in the Inner Circle. She demands to know the name of the asset Matt met at the circus. She demands to know how much Matt has told Rachel.

"What, still bitter that she got a better grade in CoveOps than you did, Catherine?" Matt asks, rolling his eyes even as Catherine burns his flesh.

 _Rachel is innocent._ They were expecting that, but they needed to ask, and do not ask again when they can see the honesty in his eyes.

They give him water and bread again.

Matt can't stop himself from falling asleep. He's not sure how long they leave him alone this time.

As soon as he wakes up, he pushes the bed as far from the wall as he can, which isn't far at all. His arms and torso are burnt and blistered, his ribs are shattered, so is his bad knee, and so is his left hand.

He realizes.

 _He'll never be able to escape._

He knows he has limited time. Hopefully, someone is already looking for him—Joe, at least. Maybe the Agency. He knows he missed a meeting with that cutout. Surely, someone knows by now that something has gone wrong.

Still, Matt has his doubts.

He doubts that anyone will be able to make it in time to find him alive. And he accepts that.

Because Matt has lived and worked with people who do incredible things against impossible odds for almost twenty years. He's been in love with one for fifteen. He's been the father to another for twelve.

But that's never been him. He's good, but he's never been special. He's a natural, but he's not a prodigy. He's never been a deep cover operative, like Abby and Joe, who have spent weeks undercover, only to have their job end in a maelstrom of bullets and daring helicopter escapes. He's never been a ringer, like Rachel, a living _deus ex machina_ who could save doomed jobs with madcap plans without batting an eyelash. And he wasn't fortunate enough to have been born into this world, the world in which he absolutely belonged, the way his daughter had been—Cammie will never have to worry about feeling like she didn't belong.

He had less luck than them.

Matt is certain that his luck has finally run out.

He carves his initials into the soft grout between the stones.

 _MAM_.

He rips apart his skin, drawing blood just under his fingernails, but hopefully, someone will find that someday and will know that Matthew Andrew Morgan was here. Hopefully, they will discover that he has not gone far. That he has not vanished without a trace.

He pushes the bed back, hiding his mark.

Hours later, the three Circle agents return. This time, Edwards gives him with what Matt is pretty sure is a double dose of sodium pentothal.

He asks Matt where he got his information. He asks Matt who he has shared his information with. And then, he asks Matt who he knows in the Circle

Matt doesn't say anything. Not when Edwards hits him. He can't.

He can't say that Joe has been telling him about the Circle for over sixteen years.

He can't say that he took Cammie with him to the circus, that the list of the names of the seven original members of Cavan's inner circle is locked within her mind.

He can't say that, with one trip to a safe house, Rachel could find the journal that would allow her to end everything.

He's not going to tell them anything.

Edwards steps back, away from Matt, who is a crumpled mess on the floor.

"We're giving you an hour to change your mind, Morgan."

And they leave.

Matt can't move. He can only think.

The Circle has no reason to suspect that either Rachel or Cammie is a threat to them. They'll be safe.

Joe will never be able to openly confront the Circle, not until it's on its deathbed. But he has his own journal, and he will find Matt's.

Cam will go to Gallagher, she'll train like her mother and her aunt, and become a better agent, a stronger agent, a smarter agent than her father.

He's done everything he can to protect his wife and daughter. He's done everything he can to make sure they have the tools and information that they will need to continue the mission he's already failed. Cam will be a better agent than her father, she'll be brave and clever and _she won't get caught_ and she'll have Rachel and Joe and Abby, they'll protect each other, and they'll bring down the Circle. They'll find the members of the Inner Circle, and they'll finish Gillian Gallagher's work. They'll finish Matt's work.

 _If they even want to._ Matt thinks, despairingly. After all, look where trying to end the Circle has gotten Matt. It's selfish of him to expect his wife and daughter to carry on this mission. But—

 _No._ Another thought comes to him. _Everything that Matt had ever known about Rachel and Cameron Morgan says that they would want to finish the Circle if given the slightest opportunity._

Matt runs through the list of names in the Inner Circle in his mind. It's the only thing he can think of, the only thought that will not make him break down with regret. He repeats the names, endlessly.

 _Elias Crane, Charles Dubois, Thomas Avery McKnight, Philip Delahunt, William Smith, Gideon Maxwell, Samuel P. Winters… Elias Crane, Charles Dubois, Thomas Avery McKnight, Philip Delahunt, William Smith, Gideon Maxwell, Samuel P. Winters… Elias Crane, Charles Dubois, Thomas Avery McKnight, Philip Delahunt, William Smith, Gideon Maxwell, Samuel P. Winters…_

Cammie will know. Cammie will remember. Perfect, beautiful, his little girl will remember. Even if she doesn't, he knows that even though he's separated the lock and the key, she'll figure it out. She'll read his letter and maybe travel to Ireland and she will know the names—

 _Gideon Maxwell._

 _Maxwell Edwards._

God.

Edwards had said, once, that his first name had been a family surname. He just had to find his first descendent of the Inner Circle when he was minutes away from death, didn't he?

Matt almost laughed. He didn't. His ribs were broken—he thought that maybe, he had a punctured lung. Still, he thought it was funny. Just his luck.

They return. Edwards drags him—literally drags him—up the steps, down the hall, out the door. He drags him through the forest, through the melting snow. Of course, they had to do this in the middle of the day, just to make sure that Matt knew they weren't concerned about any neighbors. They are alone.

He's somewhere hidden in the forests of the Alps, in god knows what country, and no one will ever find him.

The bring him to a perfectly rectangular clearing between the trees. As they approach, he sees the freshly dug grave.

A handful of other members of the Circle emerge from the forest as Edwards pushes him into the grave. Matt panics— _please god, don't let them bury me alive, please, not that, not that, not that_.

They all stand around the grave as Edwards jumps down into the dirt. He stands on Matt, who cannot stop his screams of pain as Edwards crushes his broken ribs and leg and fingers. Edwards pulls a pistol from his behind his back, and brings the barrel up to the point directly between Matt's eyes.

In his periphery, Matt can see the other members of the Circle watching. But Edwards does not speak loud enough for any of them to hear.

"Who has been giving you information about the Circle of Cavan?"

"No." His voice is faint. He tries to scream. He just screamed in pain, why can't he do it now?

"Come on, Matt. Answer the question. Who has been giving you information about the Circle?"

"No." Matt's voice is even quieter than before. He can't help it.

Edwards switches the safety off.

"Tell me what you know" He demands. His voice is flat.

Matt thinks about the circus. He thinks about Cammie _so clever and funny and beautiful and perfect_. He thinks about Rachel, _the luckiest thing that ever happened to him was meeting Rachel in Paris on a beautiful spring day_.

He closes his eyes against the glare of the sun on the snow. He wants to ruin Edward's secrecy, ruin his cover, reveal him to be an heir of the Inner Circle before the other agents. To make him vulnerable. He tries to shout, but he knows he can't.

He thinks of Rachel and Cameron, smiling, laughing, teasing, hugging him, the best things in his life. The last fifteen years of his life— _has it really been that long? Has he really been in love with the most incredible woman for fifteen years? Has it really been thirteen years since he learned he was going to become a father? —_ have made this worth it.

There is a whimper.

"Gideon Maxwell," Matthew says. His voice is nowhere near as strong as he wants it to be.

And then a bang.


	26. Rachel Part One

I was running a little late. When I bought the hydrangeas, the man working at the flower stall had been a little too friendly and had talked for a little too long, but I arrived at the Cathedral de Notre Dame just as the famous bells began to ring, marking 4 o'clock.

I love Paris. The wide streets, the statues, the gardens, the river, the bridges, the food. The sky always seemed bluer here, and in my mind, I could hear Debussy, Satie, and Saint-Saens everywhere I walked. I know it's a cliché, but I love Paris.

I looked up at the gothic towers and at the intricate stonework around the arched doors, taking in every detail as the ringing of the bells echoed across the island. I didn't look away even as I saw a man—a young, tall, handsome man—approach in my peripheral vision.

"Hydrangeas? Now there's a sight that reminds me of home."

I turned to look at him. So this was Joe Solomon's best friend, the infamous Flatwater, the kind, clever, and charming pavement artist who had been recruited as a freshman at Georgetown, plucked from the middle-of-nowhere, Nebraska. His posture was a little slumped, his clothing a little wrinkled and bland. To most people, he would have been lost in the crowd of tourists, but his eyes were bright and sharp his smile was warm and friendly and just a little flirtatious, and of all things, he had the most perfect jawline. A part of me—the part that controlled that warm, fluttery feeling in my stomach, the part of me that I would go to my grave denying existed—found it hard _not_ to notice him.

Here I was, on a mission in Paris on a beautiful spring day, with a handsome man.

I thought back to the late nights when I was at Gallagher, when my gathered in our common room late at night, weaving wild stories about the adventures we would go on after graduation while we wore pajamas and ate popcorn smuggled from the kitchens.

I am a legacy—I always knew I wanted to join the CIA, like my dad, and I've always wanted to work in the field. I wanted to travel the world. I wanted excitement and action, and as silly as it is, I wanted _glamor_. I wanted to be the agent who sat at a cafe, sipping coffee in the sun in one moment, and was disarming a nuclear warhead the next.

Paris was _always_ the setting for my stories, and I was always joined by the best, most interesting—and typically handsome—partners. After all, I've never believed in doing anything by halves—why shouldn't my daydreams be ambitious?

But this?

I fought to keep from smiling.

 _If the girls at Gallagher could see me now_.


End file.
